Through A Glass Darkly
by EHWIES
Summary: Nothing's fair in love and war anymore. xx The sixth year. JPLE, MMSB
1. June 14th

_For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known._

—Corinthians

* * *

**June 14th**

"It's simple, really," I'm trying to convince him, telephone cord caught loosely around my feet. "The girls worked it out with me last week—I'm not imposing on anyone, I swear—" but it's late night Monday as I'm breaking the news, so I know he doesn't believe me.

There's a sigh at the other end of the line. "Could you at least have let us know _before_ boarding the train that we needn't pick you up? God—that owl you sent came in the middle of one of your mother's brunches. Dropped your letter right in Mr. Snape's salad—"

I suck in a quick breath. "You had Sev's _father_ to the house? Are you barmy?"

I'm sitting on a rickety stool in the McKinnons' modest kitchen, marveling that their bought-this-morning telephone works in the house and wondering exactly when their daughter became attached at the hip to one Sirius Black—thoughts obviously far from the conversation. To be fair, Marlene's offer of room and board until August was generous, and she's the best in Gryffindor to turn to for a social overhaul. However, while I'm not in a position to be choosy, my first choice of constant summer companions wouldn't be the Marauders—a fact that Marlene seems to have disregarded.

"Your mother wanted to ask exactly how big this fight was between the two of you—you know how she gets." Dad's voice is tinny over the phone, but I can almost hear him shaking his head.

"It's big," I say shortly, uncrossing my legs (the cord still stubbornly around my ankle). "I'm not _five_ anymore; you can't just set up a play-date and decide whom I'll be friends with."

"Have you _met_ your mother, Lil?"

I tilt my head back in exasperation. "That's not the point. The Snapes actually came to the house? Has Eileen forgotten we're Muggles?"

Dad divulges, "Put on a fairly good show of it—you'd almost think she weren't a witch herself. Likely being polite, now that they know they won't be coming around anymore. But Lily, honey, if you've known for weeks, you've had ample time to call."

"The phones don't work at Hogwarts, Dad," I remind him. "Electricity and magic aren't compatible in high quantities, remember?"

"You still could have written," he maintains; then, changing tack, adds, "Pet would have appreciated the advance notice that you're not coming to the wedding."

I groan a little, quietly—I had been hoping to avoid _this_ particular discussion. "Dad, Tuney didn't _invite_ me to the wedding."

Dismissively, Dad retorts, "Just because you're not _in_ the wedding doesn't mean she doesn't want you _at_ the wedding—"

"I see no reason why I should come to watch her lord her intolerance over me. If she'd rather have that absolute _hag,_ Linda Baker, as her maid of honor…" I break off disgustedly.

"Linda's not a hag, Lily, she's a perfectly nice girl," replies Dad placidly. (I roll my eyes.) "Anyway, _I_ see no reason why you should run off to Scotland for the summer over a petty fight and a bit of offense."

I drum my fingers halfheartedly on the countertop, imagining his face—stoic but soft, with a genial smile. "My fight with Sev wasn't _petty_, Dad, it was a long time coming… Tell Mum I'll think about it, okay? It's on July—sixteenth, was it?" I concede after a pause.

"Eighteenth," he corrects, self-satisfied. "You'll be back in England by then, I hope?"

"I'll…" I tally weeks quickly. "I don't think so, but it shouldn't matter. We have Floo powder, things like that—I'm sure I'll pop in and out of England all the time; almost everyone at Hogwarts lives there, anyway."

"All right," Dad accepts. "I still don't see why you're spending half your summer hiding at the other end of the U.K., but—"

There's a sudden crack of thunder that nearly rattles the house, and I hasten to hang up. "I'm in the Wizarding world, Dad, everything's globalized for us. Look, I've got to go, we're having a lightning storm. Love you."

"Bye, honey."

I set the phone in its cradle and reach down to disentangle the cord from my ankles. What Dad doesn't realize, for all his good intentions, is that I'm not denying but rebuilding. People aren't supposed to alienate you just for choosing a Slytherin, and that Slytherin isn't supposed to call you a Mudblood and cut your ties together. It almost makes me regret rejecting the other Gryffindors all these years—not quite, but just enough to take Marlene up on her surprising offer to house me for the holidays, if only for a chance to get away from Spinner's End and maybe make up for all that lost time.

Another thunderbolt jolts me from my reverie, and I start towards the bedroom that I'm to share with Marlene for the next month and a half. She's sprawled across one of the cots, reading, when I push the door open a couple centimeters and peer inside. "Hi," I say to announce my presence, sidling awkwardly into the room.

Marlene glances up. "Hey," she says lazily, turning the page. "So did your sister take the news well?"

"Honestly, I don't think she was fazed by it; it's more my mother I have to look out for," I admit, glancing around the bedroom. It's small but not especially cozy; the walls are covered in Quidditch posters, and I'm a little nervous about sleeping in a room with so many pairs of watchful eyes. "They're not making me go home, but I might have to go to the wedding—probably not the reception, though, since Tuney won't want me around all her friends."

Marlene laughs a little under her breath. "If it's that bad, just go to spite her, Lily. I could ask Black to go with you, make a big scene."

"I think I'll pass, but thanks for the offer," I decline, smiling. "I don't hate my sister _that_ much. So what do we have planned for tomorrow?" I add offhand, unlocking my trunk and rummaging inside for pajamas.

"Staying here, I think," says Marlene sheepishly. "We were going to go to Pete's, but he had to cancel last minute—he'll still be coming over with the others, but his parents had something come up and didn't want us there unsupervised."

I shrug mildly, grabbing a clean pair of pajamas and my dressing gown. "No, no, it's fine, don't worry about it," I insist distractedly, tugging open my robe. "What time will everyone be coming over?"

"Er… well, I _said_ quarter after eleven in case you want a few hours to get ready, but knowing J and Black in particular, it could be anywhere from nine to noon," replies Marlene idly, flipping another page. "How late do you sleep in on holiday?"

I murmur, "Not too late; I probably won't be up by nine, though." There's silence for a few minutes as I change and Marlene makes progress on the novel, until I flop down on my own cot and turn on my bedside table's lamp. "How's the book?"

"Decent," she muses. "Just a romance my mum recommended—you wouldn't believe how inappropriate her tastes can get, honestly." (I suppress a thought about exactly how much of those tastes Marlene inherited.)

"Sounds like _my_ mother," I mutter, "but she usually passes her library stock on to Tuney. You read much?"

Marlene shrugs. "A bit. Nothing heavy." She slides in a bookmark and tosses the book onto the nightstand between us. "Think we should turn in? It's going on eleven."

"Yeah, all right," I consent, peeling back the covers. A moment passes, then Marlene blows out the dim candle and all is quiet.

I'm startled when she speaks, thinking she'd long ago fallen asleep; her voice is far too soft, too—penetrating, in a way. "I know why you're here."

She pauses, waiting, but I'm cautiously motionless, making sure to keep my breaths even. "I know Snape finally hit a nerve—_why_ it took so long for you to ditch him is beyond me—but you need people more than people need you, and that's all right, since it's not like people hate you because of him. But look, Lily, just because you haven't gotten close to anyone for five years doesn't give you an excuse to feel above us—and I know what kind of reputation the Gryffindors have. Arrogant snobs, right?"

I don't reply, half to not discuss it and half because it's true.

"But we're not just—we've got secrets, all right? Big ones. You think you know us girls because we share a dormitory, but—I'm sure you were at least a little surprised to see this house, right? And that's just the tip of the iceberg." Marlene draws a breath, lets it out shakily. "I don't want to lecture you, so—don't be so quick to judge, yeah?"

The question is still hanging when I fall asleep.

* * *

It looks to be early when I wake up—only a faint gleam of sunlight trickles in through the uncovered window, and there's a soft, constant snoring coming from something in the room. It takes a minute for me to realize that it's Marlene, as I've momentarily forgotten where I am; I've never spent the holidays away from home before. Shaking myself out of my reflections, I slide out of the cot and reach into my trunk for my dressing-robe and slippers; donning these, I leave the room, quietly shut the door behind me, and promptly start singing on my way to the kitchen—it's a longtime summer-morning habit that I've never bothered to break.

The tune in my head is a recent single by the name of "Moontrimmer", popular at Hogwarts in the last month more for its beat than for its lyrics—and its wide range makes my voice crack repeatedly as I rummage through the McKinnons' pantries, looking for cereal and utensils. "I get lost in the astronomical space between you and me," I bellow as I give up upon finding a stack of Chocolate Frogs and start to unwrap one. "Like the shining sea, but we'll Banish the Kelpies if you'll only come Moontrimming for—POTTER!"

I've glanced over my shoulder and spotted a fairly unwelcome face. "Don't you just love The Peverells?" he asks, unbidden, from where he's leaning in the doorway.

I realize that the Frog has jumped out of my hands and now is leaping, unfettered, across the counter. Recognizing my company, I scramble to tie my dressing-robe tighter.

"_Merlin_, Red, I'm not going to molest you," laughs James Potter.

"Potter," I acknowledge, blushing a little. "Wait—_Red_?"

"I'm trying out new nicknames. It suits you—the red hair and all, I mean," he says cheerfully.

He's dressed as an obvious pureblood, though he's taken off the school hat and exchanged black robes for midnight blue—a kind of cross between standard and dress robes, for they lack the cuffs necessary for formal occasions—and he looks scattered, his hair extra-messy and glasses askew, like he's stumbled out of bed too early in the morning.

I roll my eyes. "I wasn't expecting you yet. What time is it?"

"Ten to eight," replies Potter promptly, stepping into the kitchen. "Aren't you going to get that?"

"Get wha—oh," I realize, then turn around and grab hold of the Chocolate Frog hopping dangerously close to the edge. "Marlene said you wouldn't be here until after eleven."

He smiles and shuts the door behind him. "Did she mention that I like to be early?" Without waiting for an answer, he adds, "The breakfast food's on the far left, if you're looking for it."

"Thanks," I mutter begrudgingly, reaching in for a box of "Common Welsh Greens—Your Daily Crunchy Vegetable Staple, Now With Thirty Percent More Spice!" and a bowl. "You come here often, then?"

Potter shrugs. "Every week or two since fourth year—in the summer, that is. Your first visit, I'm guessing?"

I nod, looking for milk. "Cold drinks go in the—"

"Icebox," Potter finishes for me, grinning. "Not that there's any ice in it; Cooling Charms work so much better."

"Of course," I say, more to myself than to him. "I'm so used to the refrigerator…"

"You don't get out very much, do you?" Potter interrupts as I find the jug of milk. I turn around and stare; he blinks. "Just, you know, since all Wizarding houses use iceboxes instead of refrigerators. No electricity and all…"

I grab a napkin and agree haplessly, "Guess not."

He lets me chew in silence for a minute. "Marlene still in bed?" he asks finally, when I'm already half-done.

"Yeah. How long have you been here?"

"Not too long, er…" Potter pauses to think. "Maybe ten minutes before you came in here? Wasn't too boring until then; I brought a book."

I raise my eyebrows. "Since when do you read for fun—since when you do read _at all_?"

His laughter fills up the tiny room. "It's _Quidditch Through the Ages_, not the Apocalypse." I tilt my head in consideration, then drain the remaining milk and crumbs and bring the bowl to the sink. When I turn to leave the kitchen, Potter's looking at me intently, his brow furrowed. "I thought you hated me, Red."

"It's Evans," I correct softly. I lower my eyes and gently push past him to the door. "I never hated you, Potter," I mumble before stepping gratefully out into the hall.

"So are we friends, then?" he calls after me, right on my tail.

I burst into the living room and throw myself in an armchair, where he can't scoot in next to me. "What makes you think you know me well enough to be my friend?" I retort, starting to get annoyed.

"I know you have Common Welsh Greens every morning because you hate vegetables but want the nutrition in them," Potter blurts out, sitting on the loveseat across from me. "I know you're one of the few students at Hogwarts who enjoys History of Magic. I know you've been friends with Snape since you were eight—"

"Don't talk to me about Snape," I spit venomously.

Potter visibly pulls back, away from me. "I know you're here because of him," he adds softly.

I exhale shakily, taking a second to compose myself. "None of which you heard from me," I insist.

"Then let me get to know you."

I fidget uncomfortably and eventually meet his eyes. "I should go get dressed."

The intensity dies down; Potter grins genially again. "But you're so much more attractive wearing outgrown pajamas and hair looking like—_that_." I touch my (undoubtedly frizzy) hair self-consciously; he smirks in response.

I suggest, less than threaten, that he not do anything stupid, and I all but sprint out of the living room. Retreating down the hall to Marlene's, I hear Potter pick up the song in a disjointed alto: "So won't you say with me, _Reducio!_ To the astronomical space between you and me…"

I take as long as I reasonably can to get ready for the day. Wizarding though Potter's clothes may be, I opt for my more comfortable attire—jeans and an Appleby Arrows T-shirt—before painstakingly setting to work on brushing my hair. It's a lengthy task even without my purposeful lack of speed, given that it's so thick and tangled. About fifteen minutes into the task, Marlene stirs in her cot and promptly buries her head under the pillow.

"G'morning," I say, though it's less a cheery greeting than a snarl as I yank fruitlessly at an especially stubborn knot.

She rolls on her stomach. "Five more minutes, Mum," she mutters—quietly, with her mouth now pressed up against the mattress.

"That's Lily to you," I correct her casually, "and you'll want to go say hello to your guests; Potter has been here already for at least half an hour."

"Half an _hour_?" moans Marlene half-irritably, half-incredulously. "It's got to be…"

I reach around my cot for the nightstand and grab my watch. "Half-past nine. Nearly an hour, then, and Black might have shown up in the quarter hour I've been here, too."

"So you're hiding from J?" Marlene asks dully, now having resigned herself to awakening and dragging herself off the cot. "I'll apologize on his behalf if he said anything grossly inappropriate. Merlin, I said _after eleven_…"

"In your defense as a hostess, you did warn me they'll probably get here early," I say with finality. "Hopefully you have an extra brush; I might be occupied with this one for a while."

She nods, glancing at me fully. "Arrows suck," she comments offhand of my apparel. "Everyone knows the Magpies are the most successful team in the league."

"Not everyone takes a regional interest in supporting Scottish teams, Marlene," I retort. "I thought you Scots wanted devolution, anyway, not centralization by taking over the country."

"What?"

I shake my head and yank hard on the brush. "Muggle politics. I forgot for a minute that no one in the Wizarding world keeps up with it. Do you even know who the Prime Minister is?"

"Don't know, don't care," shrugs Marlene, throwing open her dresser drawer (she'd unpacked last night when I was on the phone with Dad). After a pause, she closes it. "On second thought, everyone coming sees me more often in PJs than not. Try to be quick, yeah? I won't abandon you with J again, swear."

"Yeah, all right," I agree over my shoulder as she leaves the room with a little wave.

After another fifteen minutes of battle with the brush, I give it up, not wanting to keep Marlene waiting (however much I may want to avoid Potter), and take it with me back into the living room. Black is here by now, though I can hardly see him from the other side of the _Daily Prophet_ he has open. I skim the headline with dread: "MINISTRY REPORTS DEATHS OF ANOTHER THREE MUGGLE-BORNS."

"Voldemort again?" I ask, curling up in the same armchair, patterned-pink and overstuffed, as before. I would dread the answer if it weren't so inevitable.

Black nods, not looking up. "Morning, Evans," he greets gruffly, flipping the page.

"Red," acknowledges Potter simultaneously.

"_Evans_," I tell him in vain. From her seat next to Black on the couch, Marlene dismally fails to pass off her laugh as a cough.

Surprisingly, it's nice, just sitting. Students don't leave their dormitories at Hogwarts without dressing for school first, so the casualness of the day sets a more comfortable, less avoid-Gryffindor-housemates-at-all-costs, atmosphere—even if I am in the room with the two Marauder ringleaders. Potter keeps watching me out the corner of his eye, though, so I eventually break the silence to ask Marlene, "Anyone else coming?"

"You're morphing into quite the social butterfly there, Red," comments Potter unnecessarily.

Warningly, I spit out my surname again.

Black promptly sneezes all over the _Prophet_.

This time not bothering to keep her laughter to herself, Marlene replies, "Lupe and Pete, plus Mary if she can find a way to come out."

She's referring to Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, and Mary Macdonald, all Gryffindors. "Why wouldn't she be able to?" I ask distantly.

"Doesn't live near enough to anyone hooked up to the Floo Network," says Marlene, passing Black a box of tissues to clear his mucus off the paper.

I nod, pursing my lips. "It'll probably be another couple hours before Lupin and Pettigrew arrive, then."

"Mmh," mumbles Marlene, glancing over Black's shoulder at the paper that he's now resumed reading.

"So it's just us for now?" I press, borderline desperate.

"_Mmh,_" she repeats.

Potter looks entirely too thrilled about this; Black (and Marlene, for that matter) remain unresponsive, engrossed in the _Prophet_. Sighing, I draw my knees together and brace myself for a longer morning than I had hoped for.

Gradually, the others trickle in. Pettigrew Flooes in around ten, a little before Marlene's family starts to come out of the woodwork. By the time Lupin appears in the hearth, the little house is bursting at its seams: besides him and the five of us, Marlene's—count them—parents and four siblings are crammed together in the kitchen across the hall.

"Bit loud in here," is Lupin's first comment as he stumbles out of the fire. "I was going to suggest turning on the WWN, but that might not be the _best_ idea…"

He is greeted by a chorus greetings and mixed reactions to the idea, cultivating in Marlene darting into the kitchen and turning on the Wizarding Wireless Network full-volume. Black and Potter cheer, while the rest of us grumble to ourselves.

"Fancy seeing you here, Lily," Lupin says to me after the chaos has somewhat dissipated. "Did Marlene drag you in here without telling you about Prongs first?"

I blush faintly. "Staying here for the summer, actually—well, until August, anyway."

"We'll all be seeing a lot more of you, then?" continues Lupin, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly upward—probably at the notion of keeping Lily Evans in close proximity to the Marauders for a month and a half.

Marlene answers before I have the chance. "I'll see to it that you will," she cuts in with a self-satisfied smirk. "Budge up, Black, don't leave Lupe just _standing_ there…"

"But it's so much healthier for him to be on his feet," Potter comments, looking a little squashed himself with Pettigrew on the loveseat. Lupin rolls his eyes and perches gingerly on the edge of the couch.

It's a bit slow going, since I don't really fit into their long-established group dynamic. I catch Pettigrew's occasional empathetic look—I don't mind it, as he looks to be just as out-of-place as I am. When Black decides a while later that it's time for lunch and everyone parades into the already overcrowded kitchen, I see Pettigrew fighting his way towards me, but Lupin beats him to the punch.

"You look a little lost," he provides, falling into step beside me.

I smile weakly. "Your lot is a handful," I agree, understating. "And I only really know Marlene well."

"Need a diversion to get some fresh air?" I blink incomprehensively back at him; he chuckles. "With a prank, I mean. Merlin, and to think that they didn't make you prefect, not even recognizing a scheme when you're invited to help with one…"

"Think I'll pass on the diversion—I don't want to be rude to Marlene—but thanks for the offer," I decline awkwardly.

Lupin shakes his head. "I'm still getting you out on the patio for lunch. I'm getting a little claustrophobic myself, and that takes a lot for me."

"Whatever you say…"

"So passive. Come on, let's go outdoors," mutters Lupin, mostly to himself, but he turns to me and grins nonetheless.

He opens the sliding door leading out to the deck, and I follow him outside, two of Mrs. McKinnon's sandwiches in tow. The house may be small, but the neighborhood is cozy, the yard richly floral. There's no more than a couple meters between any of the trees, and the patch of garden on the side of the house is spilling out of its picket fence. "Nice out here," I remark.

"Mum's big on nature," interjects Marlene unexpectedly; I glance back toward the house and realize that she's come out with us—she seems to have spilled out of the overflowing kitchen. She adds over her shoulder to Potter, who's trying to follow her out, "Stay inside, J, you look far too conspicuous to be out here." To us: "Muggle neighborhood. Keep it in mind while you're outdoors."

"Let me guess: Potter's recent nickname fascination was inspired by you," I suggest to her.

Lupin's forehead creases in confusion. "What—"

"_Red_," I intone darkly, glaring in the direction of the house.

Marlene laughs. "He's been calling her Red all day," she informs Lupin. "For all our sakes, I'm going to hope it's just a phase."

I continue to seethe, tearing through my sandwich. "Reckon you passed all your O.W.L.s?" asks Lupin, lowering his voice.

"Hopefully," says Marlene nervously, through a mouthful of cheese and lettuce. "I know I bombed History of Magic and Arithmancy—why I ever let Alice talk me into Arithmancy is beyond me—but as long as I survived Herbology, I'll be all right."

"I love Arithmancy," I pipe up, unbidden. Marlene rolls her eyes. "You want to be an Auror, right?"

"Mmh," confirms Marlene. "I need five N.E.W.T.s—I'm doing the core classes. You?"

"I want to get in the Department of International Magical Cooperation—but just in case, I want to have a solid background in more than the requirements."

Marlene shrugs noncommittally—she's never been too interested in my History of Magic line of study. "And Lupe?"

We both turn expectantly to Lupin, who blanches. "I'm—not sure yet," he admits; we let him leave it at that.

My mind is stuck on Marlene's choice in occupation—and the implications thereof. "So Lupin—"

"You can call me Remus, Lily, Lupin is far too stuffy."

"Or Lupe," puts in Marlene thickly (she's chewing again).

"Or Rem," Lupin concludes triumphantly.

I smile, even though it's hard to think of him as anything _but_ Lupin. "Remus, then—did you read about the latest killings?"

Lupin darkens considerably. "You'd have to live in a hole not to; it's all anyone talks about these days," he says grimly. "The Muggles are baffled; wizards don't officially exist in their world, you know. Even Muggle-borns—wiped right out of the government records once they're enrolled in Hogwarts."

"You have any Muggle ancestry?"

"My mother," he affirms. "Dad's worried sick about her, and it gets scarier every day…"

He breaks off, touches a hand to his forehead, and finishes off his sandwich. Marlene, too, has gone quiet, tracing along the rim of her plate. For only a moment, I reflect on what they're starting to call war—but it reminds me too much that I should have stayed home, so I quickly toss my napkin on my plate and head back inside.

The song from earlier—"Moontrimmer"—is playing on the WWN again when I enter the kitchen. Potter catches my eye, and to my surprise, I don't feel the urge to call him out on his immaturity when he yanks Black out of his chair and starts to dance, sneaking glances at me all the while.

* * *

**A/N:** Beta'd August 6th, 2009.


	2. June 19th

**June 19th**

Though we only arrived at The Burrow eleven minutes ago, I'm beginning to regret that I agreed to the day's itinerary.

"You realize that I haven't so much as sat on a broomstick in five years, yeah?" I tell Marlene warily, careful to keep my voice down, given my company. "How am I supposed to survive against half the Quidditch team members at Hogwarts, _including_ their Captains?"

"Relax," says Marlene airily, waving hello as Meghan McCormack, Gryffindor Seeker, Side-Along-Apparates onto the premises with her brother, Hufflepuff Chaser Kirley. "It's not like you're going to be seriously injured. J insists on having you on his team; you know how protective he's going to be of you."

I shudder—I don't like to think about James Potter _protecting _me—but looking at the McCormacks, I realize that I'll probably need all the help I can get. I stutter at Marlene for a second, then gesture, open-mouthed, to the siblings. "Marlene, _the McCormacks_ just got here. You know, children of Catriona McCormack from _Pride of Portree_? How exactly am I supposed to compete with _them_?"

Marlene just shakes her head at me, smiling. Every summer, the Gryffindor team hosts a series of Quidditch matches with Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, the first of which we're attending today. Though not a team member herself, Marlene uses her connections with Potter and Black to get into the first few (less serious) games. I agreed thoughtlessly to come along, not having realized what a poor match I am for the other invitees—but then, Marlene hadn't been very articulate about our competitors when she told me about the game at five o'clock this morning.

Hence the nervous clench of my stomach as I train my eyes to the ground, grasping my borrowed Shooting Star tightly. Gideon Prewett, the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, is hosting today's match, to my growing anxiety: I've never much liked him or his twin brother, Fabian, troublemakers that they are. I ask Marlene, "Who else is coming, anyway?"

"Er… the Prewetts, obviously, and J, and the McCormacks. Black, Eddie Bones, Liz Clearwater. Benjy Fenwick is Seeking with Meg, I think. A few others…" She trails off pensively. "We'll probably both be Beaters; it's mostly Chasers coming. You should be grateful; you won't have to _compete_, per se, you just whack Bludgers at people from the sidelines."

"So I can bludgeon myself to death. Perfect," I mutter, rubbing my temples. "I suppose Potter's planning on rescuing me?"

"He'll be grateful for the recognition there, Evans," says someone behind me. I turn to find Black, his arms crossed and face alight with a smirk. "Never thought you'd turn to him as your knight in shining armor."

I groan inwardly. "I don't plan to, Black," I snap. "If you'll excuse me."

I leave him with Marlene, stepping out of the living room and heading outside. The wind whips at my robes, and I wish idly that I'd dressed for colder weather. Me, Lily Evans, playing Beater… they _can't_ be serious. If only Severus knew—no, I'm not going to think about him, not now, not _again_.

"Red?"

I don't bother to correct Potter this time. I've seen him a bit every day since getting out of school—while out to lunch, at someone's house, on mornings when he sees fit to drop in—and though I can't say that I'm fond of the nickname, I've been learning to live with it. Merlin knows that grudging acceptance is easier than complaining about it every few minutes for hours. "Hey," I greet him with a sigh, instead of protesting. "Marlene says you're claiming me?"

"Yeah," he confirms, closing the storm door behind him and following me outside. "Can't have you endangering yourself for lack of proper training; the other two Chasers will do fine without me for, say, a few seconds every couple minutes, anyway. Care for a walk?"

I shrug, falling into step beside him as he circles around to the backyard. "You're sure you _want_ to play with me? I'll probably end up knocking you out with the bat or something."

Potter, surprisingly, doesn't laugh; he just smiles sympathetically and slows his pace. "I consider it an honor to have you on my team, even if it's just Quidditch, regardless of your experience or lack thereof." I leave it at that, nodding thoughtfully and pulling my robes tighter. "Cold?"

"A bit," I confess. It's curiously chilly and feels more like November than June, and the wind whips mockingly at our raw, reddening cheeks. "It's really not that—oh, Potter, you don't have to…" Before I can refuse, he's taking off his cloak and draping it around my shoulders. I've always been tall for a girl, but it still drags a few extra inches on the ground.

"It's nothing," insists Potter. "We'll both warm up once the game starts, anyway. Flying does that to you, even if you're not doing sixty kilometers per hour. But then, with your Shooting Star…" He eyes the borrowed broom suspiciously.

I groan—an awkward, strangled sound that matches my dread. "Is it too late to back out?"

"'Fraid so. You're here, aren't you?" Potter says bracingly. He pauses next, watching me with a solemn look in his eyes, and I'm almost afraid of what he'll say to break the tense silence. "Have you reconsidered my offer at all?"

I bite my lip. "Offer?"

"To be friends, I mean." He stops and shuffles uneasily from foot to foot.

Oh—_that_. "It was less an offer than a plea, don't you think?" I snipe, facing him head-on. He reaches up to rumple his hair, half-blushing (though it might just be the cold), and I soften slightly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

He dismisses, "It's fine," the color subsiding from his cheeks. We stand there for a moment, him hoping, me considering. Though I can't claim to like him in the slightest, my hostility is less provoked than usual. I've learned from Severus not to give second chances too freely, and yet—I never really gave James Potter a chance in the first place. If it weren't for Sirius's pranks, would we ever have been at odds?

"Acquaintances," I decide abruptly. "You'll just have to work your way up from there."

His mouth twitches into the ghost of a smile. "I won't disappoint," he promises, his expression teetering on the edge of something like determination, but it dissipates as we round the corner, and he just tightens his cloak around my shoulders and bites his lip. "We should head inside," he suggests quietly when I don't speak. "Gid's forming teams before everyone comes out."

"Yeah," I say passively, "yeah, of course."

Unsurprisingly, Potter holds the door open for me with a wink and a flourish. I shove his cloak back at him in return.

"All right," Gideon Prewett is shouting over the crowded din, "we're still missing a few people, but we've got enough to start teaming off. Elisabeth and I are going to be Captains and Chasers."

"We should split up the house teams to get a chance to play with each other," breaks in Elisabeth authoritatively, scanning the room. Her personality matches her role: a sixth year Hufflepuff prefect, Elisabeth has quiet purpose and a commanding presence. "Fabian, James, Sirius, you're with me; Gideon, you can have Edgar and Meghan."

Meghan pipes up, "I'm Keeping, not Seeking—blasted Prewetts won't let me switch positions for the house team. Can't ever find anyone else short enough to do it, apparently. You'd think, since I'm already a fifth year…" She's clearly shorter for her age than she likes and can hardly be 150 centimeters, if that, and her squeaky voice only emphasizes her height.

Gideon grins indulgently. "All right, then. Meghan's our Keeper—we've got Benjy and Dirk coming, anyway, so that won't be a problem. Fabian, you're Keeping, too?" Fabian nods, a sharp jerk of the head. "You'd better be with me, too, Kirley; don't want Meghan going soft on you."

"Right," consents Kirley from the back corner. He's tall and gangly on the ground, not at all like a star Chaser, freckled with a bright auburn mop of hair. No one mentions the irony: Fabian is Keeper to Gideon's Chaser, yet there is virtually no concern for brotherly favoritism. "So we've got all our Chasers? Me, Gid, Ed; Liz, James…"

"Still missing one," says Elisabeth, "but we'll figure it out later; I'm more concerned that Sirius is the only Beater on either team. Gideon, you have one of the Ravenclaws coming, right? Solveig, probably?"

Nodding, Gideon asks, "Yeah, Bernhardt—do you want her, or…?"

"Red is with us," Potter interrupts. It's the first thing he's said since we reentered the house, and there's a formidable edge to his voice that neither Gideon nor Elisabeth counters as he (subconsciously?) shuffles a little closer to me from behind. "You can have Bernhardt and McKinnon."

"That settles it, then," Gideon decides, "and just leaves the Seekers and Liz's last Chaser. Elisabeth wants to split up houses—Benjy's Hufflepuff and Dirk's Ravenclaw, so for Seeking-"

"-We get Cresswell and you get Fenwick," finishes Black. "Whenever they get here, at least. So who's the last Chaser?"

Gideon hesitates. "I…" There's a long, uncomfortable pause as Gideon looks expectantly to Fabian, who pales and moves, ever so slightly, closer to the living room wall. There's a fast flash of something unforgiving in Gideon's mischievous eyes. "Tell me you didn't."

I look between the twins, furrowing my brow. "What—?"

"Careful, Red," Potter warns, murmuring in my ear. He's standing almost directly behind me now, leaning in over my shoulder. I shiver at the close contact but don't protest; there's enough intensity in the room already.

"She's decent, if you'd just get to know her," says Fabian feebly. There's a pleading tone to his defense. "Just because it goes against your _orthodoxy_-"

"-You had to invite your _girlfriend_," scathes Gideon. "I tell you to get in touch with Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, and you go and ask _Dorcas Meadowes_ to come."

I catch on in a rush. Dorcas Meadowes, seventh year, is Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team and among the most hated of her house—and her relationship with the less noble of the two Prewetts is the biggest romantic scandal at Hogwarts that I can remember (disregarding the rumors that surround my house and year).

"She's a brilliant Chaser, and you'd do best to respect that today," Fabian sighs. "I told her seven-thirty; she should be here any minute."

Gideon rolls his eyes but doesn't retort, muttering instead about how late everyone is running. Gradually, a low hum of conversation eases its way back into the tiny room. Potter, taking advantage of the moment, tries to wrap his arms around me, and I swat him away, but not unkindly. "Still need an explanation?" he asks; dully, I shake my head.

"Is she really that bad?" I inquire. "I mean, I've only seen her in passing, but she seems all right. Conceited, maybe, but so is… half of Gryffindor, really."

"You mean my half, right?" Potter snickers, then answers, "Well, Gryffindors aren't tied up in all that pureblood propaganda. Whether Meadowes is a Death Eater in training or not, people are always going to associate her with Voldemort's war for being in Slytherin. Like it or not…"

We split the room in two, our team versus Gideon's. Black in particular is furious with Fabian, but Elisabeth is quick to quell the impending dispute. "You'll have to learn to work cooperatively with her today, Black. Fabian's right; Meadowes isn't bad when you get to know her. We've done prefect work together before, and she's never made a crack at me for being Muggle-born."

Black bristles, but Potter reaches out to restrain him. "Let it go, Padfoot," he advises. "So…strategy, anyone? We'll need to be inventive, since all we have are fruits…"

"Speaking of which, I'd better go and charm them now, after what happened when we waited until the game started _last_ summer," says Fabian, disappearing into the kitchen. "What do you think? A watermelon for the Quaffle, apples for Bludgers, and an apricot Snitch sound good?"

The last four players trickle in over the next quarter hour, and Gideon is quick to start the game, perhaps to avoid any pleasantries with Meadowes. She's surprisingly inoffensive when I meet her: grungy and pale, with a poor complexion, she's almost polite to her largely Gryffindor company, if not a little downtrodden and shy. Even so, she can't help but serve as the face of Slytherin house, prefect that she is.

The fruits only crudely resemble their counterparts, but it's enough to satisfy most of the players. Black keeps close throughout the game, guiding my arm and advising me about my aim. "Don't swing so steeply: you're going to knock yourself off your broom at that angle," he says constantly. "Aim further out, so it won't just fly back down to you."

Persistent as he is, Potter flies over to check on me every few minutes. "All right, Red?" he asks, his smile only widening when I snap at him to get back in the game before he loses it for us.

While an older Shooting Star is a shoddy broom at best, this one is fairly new and thus competitively fast, though not quite enough that I'm winded . Oddly enough, my few successful blows are all delivered to opponents, and I'm able to loosely follow the score when not otherwise occupied. Our team maintains a narrow lead for the majority of the game; even to one who knows little about Quidditch, it's easy to see why Elisabeth is the Hufflepuff Captain. Despite the competition—two of three Chasers are seventh years, she only a sixth year, and a Chaser and the Keeper both have McCormack blood—her strategy, combined with Potter's input, gives our team a necessary edge. Meadowes, on the other hand, is not so lucky. Though a team Captain herself, no one, including Elisabeth, seems to appreciate her considerate critiques.

In the end, though, Gideon's team is victorious when Benjy Fenwick (product of Hufflepuff training) steals the makeshift Snitch. Gideon and Edgar are particularly vocal about the win; Elisabeth remains diplomatic, promptly shaking Gideon's hand and congratulating Benjy on the catch. "I'll be in touch," she promises the Prewetts, leaving Meadowes noticeably out of the discussion. "We'll definitely do this again sometime. Are you free anytime next week?"

Some of the players—Meadowes, Dirk Cresswell, and the McCormacks—leave soon after, but the rest of us (save the twins, who've promised to babysit their sister Molly's squalling babies Bill and Charlie) are treated to ice creams at Florean Fortescue's afterward by Elisabeth. It's shocking how empty Diagon Alley is, compared to last summer; only a few conversational witches and wizards linger in the street, the rest hurrying to and from their destinations. Florean shakes his head at his loss of business, when asked by Marlene. "It's nothing like it used to be," he acknowledges, handing out modest vanilla cones (compliments of Elisabeth's budget). "Your lot is the first party of any real size I've had in weeks."

We eat outside, since there's no chance of a hot summer sun to melt our desserts. To my chagrin, Potter gives me his cloak again the minute we sit down, claiming not to need it and making a public show of its presentation. There are seven others who come, apart from me: Marlene, Potter, Elisabeth, Black, Edgar Bones, Benjy Fenwick, and Solveig Bernhardt from Ravenclaw. "Shame Meg couldn't stay. You all make me feel young," remarks Edgar, his mouth dripping white within minutes. He is dark, short, and stocky, with a perpetual playful gleam in his eyes and spring in his step.

"There's that and that widely publicized torch you're carrying for her," Benjy teases, his uncut mousy-brown hair windswept in his eyes. Most of the group laughs, Edgar included. "Dirk's a fifth year, too, you know, but I don't see you asking for _him_."

"I hope we make prefect together," says Edgar wistfully, slurping at his cone. "Me and Meg, I mean. We could do rounds together, maybe."

Elisabeth speaks up to me from across the table—unfortunately, I'm seated next to Potter instead of her. "It's too bad you didn't make prefect last year, Lily," she mentions. "I was so sure you were going to get it."

"Over Alice Abbott? You know she's first in the class, right?" questions Marlene skeptically.

From beneath my bright blush, I struggle not to shoot her a dirty look. "Thanks, Elisabeth," I say instead, and promptly bite into my cone. My academic rivalry with Alice is advertised enough without Marlene's input, and while Alice is by far the kindest of my Gryffindor roommates, she's something of a sore spot for me to discuss.

Sensing tension, Solveig hastens to change the subject. Her hazel eyes are alight and flicker frenetically between her peers. "Who do you think is going to make Heads this year?" she prompts.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt for Head Boy," Potter replies immediately. "He's got practically no competition for it. Head Girl'll be trickier, though; none of the girls stand out quite like Kingsley does with the blokes…"

"_You_ could get it, Solveig," suggests Edgar. "You've got the grades, and you're already prefect for Ravenclaw."

Solveig shrugs. "My guess would be Hestia Jones, personally; I don't think McGonagall likes me very much, and I'm fairly sure the Deputy Headmistress's opinion carries a lot of weight for it."

"Hestia Jones?" Black ponders. "I don't know if she has the charisma for it. They look for leadership when choosing Heads, you know. Jones is nice, but I don't know whether people would look up to her, necessarily."

"By which you mean _you_ wouldn't look up to her," sniggers Benjy.

Everyone laughs as Marlene agrees, "Not the best criteria for Headship, seeing as you Marauders don't exactly look up to anyone, except maybe the Prewetts."

"And Prongs idolizes Evans, can't forget that," smirks Black. At this obvious cue, Potter dramatically clutches at his heart and swoons. In return, I merely roll my eyes and bite back into my cone; in all likelihood, any self-defense would probably backfire in _this_ group.

At Solveig's prompting, we leave shortly thereafter: even barring the (albeit unlikely) threat of a Death Eater attack, the atmosphere itself in the alley is unsettling. Transportation is something of a problem: we Side-Along-Apparated with Solveig, the only one of us who's of age, to The Leaky Cauldron, but our destinations are now split. Since she knows where they live, Solveig takes Elisabeth and Benjy home by Side-Along, while we Gryffindors take turns Flooing home with smaller and smaller amounts of Tom's dwindling supply of powder.

Though the day was unexpectedly painless, it's still a relief to be back at Marlene's. "Home at last," I tell myself contentedly after I've dusted myself off, stretching.

Shockingly enough, I'm not caught off guard when someone answers me from the hearth. "Nice, isn't it?"

I visibly deflate but don't bother turning. "Do you make it a hobby, trying to catch people off guard?"

Potter circles around, looking all too pleased with himself. "Only for you, Red," he swears, clutching at his heart like before. "Looks like you're learning to expect it."

"Yeah, well, compared to Severus, you get to be fairly predictable after a while," I counter. He only looks hurt for a moment, but hot chagrin boils in my stomach for long after.

"And you're smiling, too," persists Potter. "Does this mean I'm growing on you?"

I bite my lip to suppress the grin and throw myself onto Marlene's couch. "How soon will Marlene be back? Were there many people waiting behind you?"

"Oh, no, just her and Padfoot—but I may have convinced them to go out for a few hours and enjoy the nice weather." He takes a seat beside me and scoots in toward me; I push him off with an index finger but choose not to comment on his boldness.

"Since I'm sure they agree it's a bright and sunny day," I say dryly.

Potter raises his eyebrows. "What, you haven't caught on that their little on-again-off-again fling is resurfacing? They'll take any excuse to get away together, bless them."

I rest my elbows against the armrest—it's news to me. "Since when do Black and Marlene have a _fling_?"

"April of our fourth year," Potter divulges airily. (I get the distinct impression he's been dying to share this with someone out of the loop for some time now.) "It was inconspicuous enough, at first; it happened right around the time his cousin, er-" He stops for a moment, clearly not wanting to betray Black's trust. "Well, anyway, it was right after a family matter arose, so whenever he'd sneak off—and believe me, he had the worst excuses for it—we just figured he wanted to be alone. Merlin knows he was always sulking back then, and with good reason, too. He actually pulled it off for a fair few months, since we weren't checking for him on the…" He breaks off and clears his throat loudly.

"Careful, Potter," I laugh.

Potter cracks an easy smile. "We weren't checking his stories, wanted to give him privacy—we didn't have a clue until last October, actually. Moony and Abbott, er, caught them going at it in a broom closet on prefect patrols. Honestly, though, no one ever told you about this? They keep quiet about it, but I figured _someone_ must have mentioned it in your dorm."

I shake my head, shrugging. "I've always tried to be in the dorm as little as possible until recently. Besides, Alice isn't the type to spread that around, and I'm sure Marlene only would have told Mary, if anyone."

"Doesn't look like she did, or else word _definitely_ would have circled back to you one way or another," remarks Potter. I titter a bit; I'm reluctant to insult my roommates, but Mary does have quite the reputation as a gossip. "Would that explain why you didn't suspect anything when Marlene started disappearing out of the dorm?"

"Pretty much. I mostly stay in the library until curfew, and then the common room until ten or eleven." Potter shakes his head at me, as if to ask how I live with myself on a daily basis. "Marlene… er…"

Potter groans suddenly. "She didn't give you one of her lectures, did she?"

"Lectures?"

"Oh, you know—where she gets all dark and honest with you and tries to guilt you into doing something. She's famous for those with us, you know," he appends earnestly.

"She might have," I reply, self-consciously tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "Anyway, she was just talking about how you all have secrets I haven't got a clue about. Her thing with Black must be one of them."

Potter blinks at me. "_You all_? I resemble Marlene McKinnon now?"

Uneasily, I generalize, "I just mean the rest of our year in Gryffindor. You can be fairly intimidating taken together, you know." When he doesn't catch on, I continue to ramble, "You're all so… close-knit, I guess. Rarely seen fewer than four at a time. And your personalities—Mary is shallow and a bit snide, Marlene is haughty and popular, Alice seems sweet but has a competitive side like you wouldn't _believe_, Emmeline is quirky and unapproachable. And then you Marauders have this collective reputation, you and Black in particular—top of the class without even trying, Quidditch stars, legendary pranksters, hexing Slytherins and first years alike right and left—"

"_Lily_," says Potter intently, and I stop for breath, gasping it in.

"Sorry to go off on you like that; don't know what's gotten into me lately. This whole thing with Severus has me on edge…" I twiddle my thumbs and don't dare meet his eyes.

To my relief, he doesn't try to tilt up my chin. "First of all, I'm not top of the class; that's the Ravenclaws' job, and maybe Abbott's. Merlin knows how poor my grades are in comparison, except in Transfiguration. Last year, Gryffindor lost the Quidditch _and_ house Cups, in part thanks to both my Chasing and those pranks you think put me on a pedestal, because no matter how invincible I seem to the student body, I'm not to the teachers, especially McGonagall. And I don't hex first years—Slytherins, yeah, but not underclassmen. That's Padfoot and Wormtail." He heaves a sigh and slouches in his seat. "You really think we're _intimidating_?"

"A bit, yeah," I admit sheepishly, still refusing to look at him. "That's what happens when you hang around with a Slytherin all the time and then have to room with you lot. I've never been in a position to see you all at your… friendliest."

Potter sighs again. "And here I've been wondering what your problem is all year—whether you hate me irrationally or really are that pretentious."

"_Pretentious_?"

"You'd think you'd leave the nagging to the prefects, wouldn't you? Not that Moony does a very convincing job of it—but Abbott, at least," Potter chides lightheartedly.

My blush returns, just when I thought it was starting to subside. "That's what _you_ get for screwing with my then best friend for five years," I mumble. "And I still think you're unnecessarily arrogant and—and irresponsible and closed-minded and rude and immature and—"

"And here I thought we were beginning to get along," says Potter under his breath. I break off again, wondering whether my coloring has reached maroon yet. "If you think I'm so awful, why are you telling me all this?"

I finally look up. He's kind but serious in the face, hanging onto my every word. "I don't know—I don't have anyone else to tell it to, I guess. I'm not the greatest at making new friends."

He chuckles. "You do fine at _making_ friends, Red, but your pacing is a little off. You barely said two words to anyone all day, me included, until I show up here and you start sharing all your insecurities…"

"I don't like large groups of people," I shrug.

"I can see that."

We lapse into silence for a while, just sitting. In the kitchen, one of the McKinnons has turned on the WWN. I half listen to the garbled rock, half wonder what exactly Potter and I are doing.

"You honestly think that of me, Red?" Potter finally bursts, his voice cracking at the nickname.

I hold his gaze for a long second. "Always," I say, and his face falls before I go on, "but it doesn't matter so much at times like this."

The brightness returns a little to his eyes. "What matters now?"

My breath comes out in a shudder. "It's nice having someone to talk to who—who listens, and who doesn't judge, even if he is a pigheaded toerag with nothing in common with you."

It's a backhanded compliment, but he still glows. "So from now on—"

"Don't expect us to get like this again," I warn, crossing my arms.

"It was worth a shot." Potter grins. "Don't listen to McKinnon, though. Padfoot rubs off on her too much. Everyone is willing to give you a chance if you'll let go and just _let_ us, yeah? Start with me—I'm right here, Red, I've always been right here."

I smile weakly. "Thanks, Potter."

He waves it off, looking down. "I can get going before Marlene comes back. Preserve your dignity and all that."

I tilt my head, considering. "You know, Potter, I don't think I'll mind if you stay," I confide to him, and though I hate to admit it, his answering smile is contagious.

* * *

**A/N:** Beta'd August 8th, 2009.


	3. June 22nd

**June 22nd**

"I still don't understand how I never knew you have a sister," Mary's saying. We're out to coffee with Marlene at a café just outside Mary's neighborhood. Ordinarily, she'd have preferred Madame Puddifoot's in Hogsmeade, but she's been delving more into the Muggle side of life to avoid the negative atmosphere of the magical world that's been sparked by the threat of Voldemort. This Mary tells me, all very fast and with the expectation of an equally chatty reply; I may have known her for five years, but not enough to realize her tendency to over-share with friends. Since Marlene is Mary's best friend, I wonder, does this make Mary my friend by extension, or is she just trying to accept me now that Severus is out of the picture?

I explain, sighing, "I don't talk about Tuney that often. We're not exactly, er, on the best of terms…"

"By which she means Petunia hates her for being a witch," interjects Marlene loudly, eager to shoot down a girl she didn't know about until I started staying with her. I roll my eyes, as I'm also beginning to catch on about Marlene; she's both impassioned and impulsive.

A few people sitting nearby turn their heads at mentions of witchcraft. Mary blushes and looks around at the Muggles, her face bright red, and she hisses out the corner of my mouth, "Not so _loud_! Merlin, Mauve, haven't you heard of the International Statute of Secrecy before?"

Marlene mumbles an apology, then adds, blinking, "Since when is Mauve one of my nicknames? I mean, Lene or Leigh you've used…"

"Oh, I just think it goes, now that Lily's Red and all," Mary prattles, her voice back to normal. I roll my eyes and take a long swig of my cappuccino. "James was calling her that at Peter's house the other day."

Marlene glances, startled, at me, then back to Mary. "Pete invited you to his place?" she asks quickly. Mary nods and opens her mouth, about to spit out a litany of details, but Marlene quickly cuts her off: "I just mean, you know, since I hang around with all the Marauders in the summer… plus Black was probably there…"

"Does _she_ know about you and Sirius?" Mary mutters, glancing conspiratorially at me.

"Well, _now_ she will," snaps Marlene, put-out in response to Mary's bluntness.

I smile faintly and trace the rim of my coffee mug. "It's all right; I—erm—caught on a couple months back," I fudge, not wanting to give away Potter's admission.

Marlene raises her eyebrows; the left one arches past her carefully side-swept bangs. "Did you? I thought we weren't being obvious…?"

I bite my lip. "No, no, you're not," I improvise clumsily, "you just, er, catch on to things like that when you live in the dorms. Someone might have said something once or twice, I don't know, and I just—pieced it together…"

"Probably Mary here," bites Marlene, sipping her latte. Mary starts indignantly, but Marlene cuts her off before she can defend herself. "Doesn't matter, I guess, you know anyway. He was there, wasn't he? Black?" she directs back to Mary, who nods. "He say anything about me?"

"Well, he asked Pete once or twice why you weren't there—it wasn't _suspicious_ or anything, he was more, like, casual… but he answered by telling Sirius he could worry about the guest list when it was at _his_ place, and that shut him right up, you know he'd never invite anyone to Grimmauld Place." Mary stops to draw breath. I glance at Marlene, but she's impassive, waiting for Mary to finish. "I don't know why Pete was so nasty about it, though. Usually he likes you, and he practically _lives_ for Sirius…"

Marlene raises her coffee to her lips. "Huh," she says quietly, taking a sip. We sit in silence for a minute, until she continues, "Who else was there, Mare?"

"Oh, um… James and Lupin, of course. And Em," she lists.

"_Em_ was there?" Marlene seems about as incredulous as I am at the news; while I like Emmeline Vance (another of our roommates) well enough, her borderline-antisocial tendencies don't make her the most likely person to spend any time with the _Marauders,_ of all people. "Isn't she a bit too…"

"No, I know what you mean," Mary says, swallowing a mouthful of coffee. "She didn't say, like, _anything_ the entire time…just read some Muggle fantasy novel—I always find those hysterical, don't you? How far off they are." At this point, she's particularly careful to lower her voice, despite her tendency to seem dumb at times. "Anyway, it wasn't really awkward or anything, she just sat with Lupe the entire time. He kept her company, I guess. Unlike poor _Red_ here, who's hardly said more today than Em yesterday," she finishes, looking expectantly to me. I hide behind the mug again, draining the cappuccino all too fast.

When Marlene doesn't say anything convenient to draw attention away from me, I sigh and shrug my shoulders. "Just thinking," I offer by way of explanation.

"About?" Mary demands, for once keeping brief and to the point. I mumble indistinctly and tip the nearly--empty mug back to catch the foamy dregs on my tongue. "What was that? Potter, did you say?"

Marlene latches tight onto the opportunity to grill me on the subject. "What's been going on with you and him lately, anyway?" she demands.

"Nothing!" I insist. I figure my pretending-to-drink-coffee jig is up, so I unnecessarily wipe my mouth on a napkin instead.

"I don't call it nothing, your relationship with the bloke. You've been up and down with him since day one—you row with him whenever Snape's around or comes into the conversation, but the second it's just Gryffindors, you're practically _flirting_ with the guy," accuses Marlene.

At the other end of the table, Mary is grinning coyly. I work to keep my temper under control.

"I do not _flirt_ with him, Marlene! _He_ flirts with _me_, I just don't bother telling him off for it when Severus isn't there—oh, don't look at me like that, you know I don't hate him as much as you want to _think_ I do. I don't like him, necessarily, but mostly I just don't know him, and we're too different for him to rub me right until I do—"

"So you _want_ to get to know him, then," suggests Mary, beaming, and continues before I can interrupt, "Don't deny it, Red, Sirius told me yesterday you and James have been attached at the hip at every social event this summer. Everyone knows about, like, how you lashed out at him during O.W.L.s, and it's never been as bad as that before—and now you're hanging around him?"

"Just the other day he was at home with you, with nobody else there… you don't have any weird relationship with J we don't know about, do you?" presses Marlene, watching me intently. Mary looks positively delighted by the idea.

"_No_," I assert, "I just—oh, come on, you all know ruddy well how stressed I get during exams, _especially_ for a subject like Defense. And he'd just asked me out—_asked me out_, out of the blue, like nothing was wrong—and then Severus called me a _Mudblood_, for Merlin's sake! My best friend! I had a right to snap!"

Marlene sighs. "Oh, come off it—he's not even your friend anymore."

"Exactly," I emphasize, "so that takes away my only reason to hate the bloke, now, doesn't it?"

"So you were just _exaggerating_ when you went off on him like that and told him he makes you sick, _were you_?" says Mary skeptically.

I retort, "I didn't say I _like_ him, Mary, just that he's more tolerable now than he used to be. Let it go, yeah?"

They let the subject drop, but I can tell from the looks on their faces that they aren't going to forget it anytime soon. Hastily, I think of something to divert their attention. "What did you want to know about Tuney earlier, Mary?" I ask.

"Oh—I just, like, thought it was odd, you know? I know you for five years, and then the first I hear about you even _having_ a sister is that you're not invited to her wedding."

"Well, technically, I'm invited—though only because my parents want me there," I say, understating how badly Mum wants me to attend. "But I'm not going to be in it—not as maid of honor, not as a bridesmaid, nothing. I didn't even get a formal invitation."

"I told her to go, and to bring Black to get back at her, but she's not having it," Marlene tells Mary in an aside.

I exhale slowly. "I don't know… I'll probably just go. I think Mum might take offense if I don't, particularly after not telling her in advance that I didn't intend to come home for the summer," I decide reluctantly. "But I'm still not bringing Black as my date; he'll just make it worse for me. Lupin, maybe—he seems all right."

"Huh," says Marlene slowly, losing interest in me and instead dabbing at her mouth. "You know, we should probably get going—I'm done here. Either of you bring any lipstick that'll work for me? I forgot mine at home," she adds, frowning at the red stains on her napkin.

"I don't wear makeup," I remind her patiently as Mary rummages through her bag.

Marlene grins. "Right. You really should; some mascara would really make those eyes pop…"

"I _think_ I have one or two that could work here, Mauve," interjects Mary, holding out a selection as I shake my head and smile, "but don't count on it; the pinks I like are far too light for your skin tone." (I stifle a laugh at the irony: Marlene's complexion may be dark, but after a week of exposure to Muggle tanning beds, Mary's, though tinted orange from her cosmetics, is even darker.)

We pay—Mary and I split the bill, after Marlene realizes she's forgotten to bring any Muggle bills—and take off to walk back to Mary's house. Marlene, I notice, checks her reflection constantly in shop windows, critically playing with the hem of her skirt as she goes—not in vanity, I surmise, but because she's uncomfortable without her robes. Growing up in a family of brazen wizards, I figure, can make you doubt your ability to not look out of place in the Muggle world.

It's a nice area, not upscale but cozy, the close buildings no higher than two stories. The cold spell from earlier in the week is beginning to thaw, but a slight breeze remains to tease the leaves of the densely packed trees. It's cloudy but not entirely overcast out, and shy sunlight warms our arms, which are bashful and exposed without robe sleeves to hide them.

I watch my roommates silently (especially in Mary's case, I can't quite call them friends yet) as we walk. They pay no mind, carrying between them light conversation about a "scandalous" breakup in our year: apparently, the reasonably sensible Paul Patil had left fellow Ravenclaw Carol Davies for Greta Catchlove, a domestically inclined Hufflepuff. "He's an idiot for leaving Davies, since honestly, he was better off with her; at least she was an intellectual match for him. Catchlove doesn't stand a chance," Mary's saying when I tune in briefly. "I give it, like, two months at best—he's going to want to debate politics or something, and she's going to want his opinion on his favorite flavor of cheese. Mark my words, it's not going to last long."

She's better than she looks, Mary. On her surface behavior alone, mostly negative words come to mind: superficial, materialistic, dumb. And it doesn't help her case that she certainly looks the part: half-Irish and half-Scottish, her skin would be ghostly and her hair jet-black if not for the tanning and the beach-blonde dye, her Muggle tee and jean skirt reveal far more than is necessary, and she throws a fit whenever she breaks a manicured nail. In particular, no one at Hogwarts knows quite what to make of her speech habits: her "likes" aren't fitting of her personality. (Not yet, at least: Marlene has always joked that Mary's the predecessor of a new stereotype.) Time, though, lures one into a sort of fondness for Mary, or at least an understanding. She gossips but never backstabs, can't keep a secret but doesn't pretend to, flirts around but never crosses lines, and we've all seen her fierce loyalty to her housemates in between the shallow smiles. She isn't my first choice for a companion, certainly, and nothing like my former best friend, but she's not one to underestimate, either.

By the time we reach Mary's house, the subject has shifted again, this time back to the other Gryffindors. "Have you been in touch with the other girls?" Marlene asks Mary, swiping dark brown hair out of her face. "Alice and Em?"

"I told you already, I just saw Em yesterday at Pete's," Mary answers, "though not other than that—you know how she is. I wrote Alice a couple days ago, just about, like, how her summer's going and things like that, but she hasn't gotten back to me yet. And I asked whether she wants to hang out sometime this week—I thought we could get the girls together, catch up on what we've been doing."

"We've only been out of school for a week. We've hardly been up to much, and I doubt they have, either," Marlene points out, smirking. "Especially Alice."

Mary tilts her head. "As far as vacations go, maybe not—but there've been developments, we all know that." They both look pointedly to me, and I sigh. Apparently, there's no escaping the gossip.

"Just because Potter and I aren't at each other's throats every second of every day-"

"Does not mean there haven't been _developments_ between you two," finishes Mary smugly (though I hadn't intended to end the sentence _quite_ like that).

"All right, fine," I consent for now, recognizing defeat, "How would you describe these—_developments_?"

Marlene launches immediately into a litany. "Well, to start, there's the fact that you've gone from hot-and-cold—well, lukewarm-and-cold, anyway—to just lukewarm, not even the occasional insult. He hangs around and you don't even mind, you're _initiating_ conversations with him, and he's calling you Red."

I blink. "What does him calling me _Red_ have to do with anything?"

"It has everything to do with everything," Marlene continues. "It's practically a term of endearment, and you hardly even _mind_."

"Believe me, it's _not_ a term of endearment," I scoff, all too uncomfortable with the girls' presumptions.

Mary adds, "Maybe not to you, but he's probably using it like one. You can't _not_ realize he's been carrying around a torch for you since, like, third year."

There's a pause as the full statement sinks in—it's common knowledge around the school, but people rarely talk about it so bluntly, for the sake of both Potter and myself. Finally, I again divert their attention: "As if the two of _you_ had nothing to share. Black, Marlene? Cattermole, Mary?"

They flush; I smirk. For the next few hours, at least, I suspect that I'll be free.

* * *

"Coming out of the woodwork, I see, Lily," says Emmeline when I stumble out of the fire. As it turned out, Alice got back to Mary fairly quickly after all, inviting all of us to her house for Friday afternoon brunch. Though her extended family is infamously large—half the Abbotts she meets are so distantly related that she doesn't recognize them—Alice herself is an only child, and her rather nice house, which is at least double the size of Marlene's, seems frigid and empty, having only three inhabitants. It's like none of them ever figured out what to do with the place once they'd bought it.

Bashfully, I clamber to my feet and shake soot out of my hair. "Hello to you, too, Emmeline," I mutter. Though I like her perhaps the best out of the Gryffindor girls—she and Alice are the more authentic of the four, so she's the default preference given my academic differences with the latter—she carries the fewest airs, which can be as unnerving as it is refreshing.

Not ten seconds later, Alice rushes forward from the kitchen, where I'm sure she's been fixing lunch. "Marlene! And hello to you too, Lily," she greets, with a touch of strained enthusiasm when she says my name. Though she's clearly struggling to welcome _me_, the former outsider, she's quick to engulf the both of us in hasty hugs. I catch a mild whiff of something earthy from her straggly blonde hair before she lets go and beckons us out of the living room. "Come, come, in the kitchen—Mare and Em were just helping me with some sandwiches and tea—oh, how _have_ you been? I haven't heard from either of you all summer…"

It occurs to me that I've never before seen Alice outside of school—but then, I realize a split second later, neither have I seen any of these girls outside of school before this summer. My holidays have always been spent with Severus, all other communication usually limited to Alice's occasional polite letter and Potter's Howlers professing his love (Howlers because he knew I wouldn't read an ordinary letter).

I shake off the memories and follow Alice into the kitchen, which is just as sterile silver as her living room is blank white. Mary grins at us from her stool, where she's finishing up a fruit platter at a narrow island. "Could one of you prepare tea?" asks Alice, addressing me and Marlene—Emmeline situates herself a suitable distance from Mary at the island and flips open a novel, pointedly exempt from responsibility.

"I can do it," says Marlene, taking fast initiative. "Lily's still learning how Wizarding kitchens work."

"Lucky," Mary mumbles, accidentally knocking over the top of her arrangement.

I chuckle and ease myself onto a stool next to Emmeline, peering over her shoulder. "Good book?" I ask mildly, careful not to get too close—she can be a bit touchy about personal space. She merely nods and flips the page, not delving into any details as usual. If she's expecting me to ask further questions, she doesn't comment when I don't.

"So, Alice," says Marlene, putting on a kettle, "what's this I hear about you and Frank Longbottom?"

Alice turns bright red and stammers something about "prefect duties" and "a very nice bloke". Apparently, the nagging I've endured about Potter is not an exclusive treatment. All she substantially provides, though, is that "I quite like him, really, and I don't want to ruin the possibility of a date because my mates have me thinking about him constantly, so I'd appreciate it if you'd all let it alone!"

Mary tuts; Marlene rolls her eyes. "Hope you get the date," I say encouragingly, and she shoots me a grateful look.

"Thanks, Lily—sandwiches, anyone?"

I promptly dig in, mostly for an excuse to keep a full mouth and a low profile, even though I'm not known for my appetite. Conversation bursts the room's seams, which is surprising for its size but explicable by the occasion: it's the first time this summer that we've all been together under one roof. Mary is quick to ask Alice's opinion on the Davies-Patil split ("Not that it's any of my business, but personally, I think it's a shame it didn't work out… I've always rather liked Paul, actually, and I don't think he'll ever be as happy with Greta as he was with Carol, or as he looked to have been, anyway"), and in turn dishes on her budding friendship with Reginald Cattermole ("He's a change from the sort of bloke I usually date, but you can only put up with the likes of—Gilderoy Lockhart, or—or Davy Gudgeon—for so long before you want something more, and Reg is sweet and, and, honest… and, like, it's only one date, it's not the end of the world if we don't hit it off"). Emmeline, of course, is as complacent with her novel as always, and Marlene remains noticeably quiet, probably to divert attention from her own semi-secretive love life.

Only once is the Potter issue raised. Oddly enough, Alice is the one to address it—"So Mary was telling me earlier that you and Potter are starting to hit it off, Lily?"—but my determination to _not _discuss him increases when Emmeline sneaks a sideways glance at me from behind her book.

"Consequence of seeing him daily since we got out of school," I explain away. "He's probably lamenting my absence right now—told me yesterday he'd write me tonight so as not to break the habit of knowing how my day is going. Once school starts back up, it'll probably blow over."

"Last time you talked to him at school, he asked you out," Alice reminds me unnecessarily.

I retort, "Last time I talked to _you_ at school, Frank Longbottom interrupted before I could say anything significant."

She quickly drains her tea and drops the matter without another word.

"I'm thinking of buying a Kneazle," announces Emmeline without lifting her eyes from the page. Mary raises her eyebrows, but the rest of us take the comment in stride—Emmeline is prone to abrupt comments.

"Well, you'll need a license for that." Alice is the first to respond, ever the realist.

I set down my sandwich (or what little remains of it). "On that note, I'm thinking of buying a cat—could be a good idea to get them at the same time, Em; they'll be able to keep each other company while we're in class. Do any of you have cat allergies?" A flurry of negations and shaken heads ensues. "All right, then—we can do our school shopping together, head down to the Menagerie."

"We should all do our shopping together," suggests Marlene. "Lily's staying with me anyway, and we barely ever get together like this often…"

Alice nods her approval. "Should we go right after O.W.L. results come out? Since I don't know how long Lily will be staying with you…?" The subtle implication is that I wouldn't be invited otherwise—that I'm the pesky tagalong to a tradition—but at least no one objects outright to my presence, though that may be mostly due to politeness.

"When _do_ results come out—anyone know?" Mary asks.

"Er… sometime in July; the exact week varies from year to year," figures Marlene. "I'll owl you all about it when we get them, yeah? How d'you reckon you lot did?"

Alice moans and slouches in her stool, resting her head in her hands. "They were awful. Positively _awful_," she bemoans. "Oh, I'm sure I failed Arithmancy, and don't even get me _started_ on Defense Against the Dark Arts…"

"Please. _I_ failed Arithmancy, _you_ aced them all," accuses Marlene. "You're going to be an Auror, too, right? So we'll need Potions, Transfiguration, Herbology, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts, at least…"

"I hope I got through Care of Magical Creatures all right. I'm sure I _passed_, but I want at least an E in it," Mary worries. "I mean, since I'm going into wizarding naturalism… Herbology was a piece of cake, though."

Marlene moans, "Oh, Merlin, _Herbology_," and emulates Alice, burying her face in her arms.

Mary looks curiously to Emmeline and me, but neither of us bothers to voice our woes; Emmeline is again engrossed in the book, and I'd rather not discuss my academics in front of Alice.

A resulting beat ensues, then Alice muses, "It's strange, going to Diagon Alley, isn't it? The place is practically empty nowadays… it used to be so crowded back in our first year."

Affirms Emmeline: "The Dark Lord takes his toll."

There's a brief pause as we chew on her words, followed by an immediate bout of nervous laughter and forced conversation to shake them off. There's a small scuffle between Alice and Marlene when the latter insists that we all help her clean up, but for the remainder of the day, the mood only somewhat lightens.

As expected, when Marlene and I Floo back to the McKinnons', waiting for us is a haughty-looking long-eared owl that I instantly recognize. "Potter," I say under my breath, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth as I accept the letter in its outstretched talons.

_Red—_

_Hope you've enjoyed your day. Padfoot's been over since noon, which has been an absolute joyride—he's bought a motorbike and is trying to charm it to fly, so you can imagine how that's going. Wormtail says he'll do my eulogy if I have to test-drive the thing._

_I long for you desperately and think you're divine. Padfoot says hullo._

—_James_

I scribble my reply and send it on its way: _Potter—my day was fine; Mary Macdonald probably wants to know what you think of Patil and Catchlove, and Emmeline Vance is apparently getting a Kneazle. Thanks for not sending a Howler. Don't off yourself on the bike, not that I'd care if you did, and don't hold your breath, I'll see you tomorrow at Lupin's—Evans_.

I meet Marlene in her room, where she's reading again; she looks to be close to the end of the romance from earlier. "Interesting ending?" I ask, plopping down next to her, cross-legged.

She sticks in a bookmark and pulls off her reading glasses. "I guess. How's J?"

"He and Black are trying to make a motorcycle fly," I say darkly (Marlene shakes her head and sighs), conveniently neglecting to mention his parting words. "Anything interesting planned in the next week or so?"

"My birthday's on the 29th," says Marlene casually.

I'm taken aback. "Why didn't you _tell_ me? Now I haven't gotten you anything…"

She smiles, but it's halfhearted. "It's all right; just get a card or something next time I'm not looking. Anyway, we're spending the day at my dad's, if that's all right."

Once again, I'm floored. "But—your parents aren't divorced."

"It's kind of a long story…" I maintain my gaze, and she slouches in defeat. "Fine. Well—obviously, Neil's not my father. He and Mum were together at Hogwarts and got engaged right out of school—but Mum thought they were rushing it and got cold feet, and the engagement fell apart for a few months. They got back together, of course—Neil made some corny gesture that Mum completely fell for—and they got married soon after when they found out Mum was pregnant. They figured they just hadn't been careful enough before they broke up… Neil didn't realize Mum had had a fling during the separation until I was born two months later than would have been possible, were he the father."

I don't answer, at first. Marlene's no longer looking at me, her eyes trained fixedly a spot a few centimeters to my left, but otherwise doesn't look affected by the confession. "I—er—I mean, I'm not _sorry_, but—"

"It's awkward, I know." She laughs, but it comes off as more of a bark than anything. "It's not very classy, being the illegitimate child—and it's a huge disgrace in wizarding culture. Mum hasn't told anyone but Neil and my siblings, and they're all sworn to secrecy on it—the only others who know are you and Mare. And Doc, of course."

"Doc?"

"My dad. Caradoc Dearborn—Doc for short." Marlene looks at me, finally, but it feels more like she's looking through me. "Muggle-born. Auror. Nobody knows I'm a half-blood, either, since I was raised pureblood."

I'm starting to realize what she meant when she said the other Gryffindors have secrets. "What's he like?"

"Oh, he's all right," admits Marlene, laughing again (but this time, it sounds authentic). "My problem is with Mum, not with Doc. Doc's a good guy—didn't know about Neil or anything until he got an owl saying he had a daughter. Mum didn't want him to be able to see me, but Neil convinced her that I deserve to know my father, so I always spend my birthday with him and stay at his flat for Christmas. Sometimes I don't see him much, if there's an emergency, but he's great when he's around. He'll like you, I'm sure."

A rapping on the window interrupts her. "Potter's owl again," I mutter, crossing the room and letting it in. His letter is simple: _Red—Padfoot says that Catchlove's a brilliant kisser, so I reckon Patil's got the right idea about her. See you tomorrow—James_. "This'll just take a minute," I promise Marlene, and I flip his parchment over and scramble for a quill.

_Potter—can I ask a favor of you?

* * *

_**A/N:** Beta'd August 15th, 2009.


	4. June 28th

**June 28****th**

The doorbell rings, spurring a flurry of activity. Marlene squeals and adds a final dab of gloss to my lips with a grandiose flourish and unhidden enthusiasm. I smile timidly and rush to the door, pushed faster down the hall by my companion all the while. Straightening my blouse, I reach for the handle and find myself face-to-face with one James Potter, who's leaning in the doorway and twiddling a lily in his fingers.

"A lily for the flower," he says in lieu of a greeting, stretching out his hand. I accept it, blushing and mumbling a polite word of thanks. "Now, do I have to stay and say hullo to the family, too, or d'you want to get out of here?"

"Oh, go on ahead, you two," insists Marlene, positively beaming at him. "I'll see you in a few hours, Lily?"

I nod, carefully training my eyes to Potter's. "Bye, then," I say breathily, taking his free hand as he helps me onto the porch. We both give Marlene a wave as she closes the door—and promptly drop the act.

"You _had_ to give me a lily." I round on him, brandishing the flower and prodding him in the chest with the stem. "A _lily_. Could you be _any_ more cliché?"

He grins, as though I've just thanked him profusely for it, and tugs the thing out of my fingers, breaking off the bulk of the stem and tucking the remainder in my hair. "I thought it appropriate. Should I make note of an alternative floral preference for our second date?"

I correct him, glaring (and hoping he hasn't been taking my invitation the wrong way), "You mean, for our first _real _date—_if_ you ever get one, that is, which I doubt after this. Do you not think I can hop a step on my own, either? What kind of a 1950s chauvinist _are_ you?"

"Oh, Red, you applied makeup for me," continues Potter obliviously, wiping away an imaginary tear. "I'm touched."

"I'd charm it off if we could use magic outside of school," I say bitterly. "How'd you get here without Flooing, anyway?"

He finally meets me in the real world, dropping his own dreamy smile. "Don't remind me. I had to walk four blocks from the nearest Wizarding fireplace so I could show up at the doorstep; I thought it would be more believable if I came off as a hopeless romantic."

"You shouldn't have tried to display _me_ as one," I maintain, pulling my hair out of whatever updo Marlene fashioned for it and letting it hang in a simple ponytail (lily intact). "And then I can't tell you off when I'm pretending to _like_ you."

"Ah, well, I think she bought it—you'll want to pick up the pace, _you_ have to go all four blocks now, too," Potter adds, and I accelerate from a stroll to a brisk walk. "Why'd you need me as your fake date, anyway?" he inquires after a minute.

"What, didn't I tell you? Marlene's birthday is tomorrow, and she didn't tell me until three days ago—I need an excuse to get her something. It'd look suspicious otherwise, since I'm staying with her and we're supposed to go everywhere together," I fill him in, shrugging.

Potter chuckles. "And you chose _me_ as your date? I'd think Moony's more your type."

"Yes, well, she and Mary are convinced we're in love; no need to persuade them that Lupin wants to compete for my affections," I tease. "You're the more believable choice."

"Huh. So a goodbye kiss is out of the question, then?" I smack him across the chest. "Relax, Red, I was only joking… So do you want Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley?"

I contemplate for a moment. "Hogsmeade, I think—for Scrivenshaft's. Flourish and Blott's wouldn't have cards, would they?"

He shakes his head. "Hogsmeade it is, then—we can Floo into Honeydukes."

Disgruntled, I ask (rhetorically), "You're _sure_ it was four blocks away?"

Potter doesn't reply, merely sweeps me into his arms. I swat at him, indignant but laughing all the while.

The war doesn't appear to have affected business at Honeydukes. The shop is as crowded as ever when Potter and I stumble out of its fireplace, shaking our clothes free of soot. "Looks like your makeup is ruined," he sniggers, and I brush my cheek with two fingers and pull them away to see just as much rouge as black. I meet his eyes, and he wordlessly passes me a handkerchief.

"Thank Merlin," I laugh. "I'll just be a minute; I should go clean up in the loo…"

Five minutes and one raw-scrubbed face later, I emerge from the restroom to find my "date" perusing a shelf of sugar quills. "And I thought you were supposed to be a Marauder," I greet, grinning; he doesn't bother turning around. "These are the oldest trick in the book."

"Can't be innovative if you don't know the basics," Potter retorts, grabbing a handful. "Reckon McKinnon will want anything here?"

"Maybe," I fathom—to be perfectly honest, I don't know Marlene well enough to buy her anything too personal. "Does she have any nut allergies that you know of?" He shakes his head. "She like caramel or plain chocolate?"

It takes only ten minutes to buy Marlene a sampling of chocolate flavors—but Potter takes nearly an hour after that to browse the new merchandise. "You're like an overenthusiastic six-year-old," I chide playfully as we leave—though he's bought nothing but the quills. "The epitome of a kid in a candy store, except you're almost of age."

"What can I say?" He grins and drapes an arm around me. "I just like to bring out my inner youth."

We head up the street to Scrivenshaft's, Potter's arm still around me (much to my chagrin). Its business starkly contrasts Honeydukes's; when we enter, we are the only customers in the shop. The manager ambles over to greet us from behind the desk, where he leaves behind a tattered book upside-down to mark his place. "Anything I can get for you fellows?" he drawls.

"Do you carry cards here?" I begin to ask, but Potter interrupts.

"Where do you keep your stationery?" The manager pays heed to him, not me (perhaps because Potter sounds so much more assertive) and points his thumb behind him and to the left. "Thanks," Potter adds, winking, and steers me in the indicated direction.

I roll my eyes. "I'm writing a birthday card, not a _letter_, Potter."

"Ah, but she'll like it better if it's personal—and those sayings in most cards are a cop-out," chides Potter.

"You're rather reluctant to let me make my own decisions today, aren't you?" I snap, scanning the shelves for something tasteful.

Potter shrugs. "Occupational hazard of playing your boyfriend."

I sigh. "You're _not_ my boyfriend."

"You say that now…"

Though I'm tempted to stalk off and get a card myself, I eventually settle on a simple cream parchment with a baby-blue border. "So inconvenient that they're packaged by tens," I grumble. "Would've saved a few Sickles just to get a card—"

Potter is quick to present a handful of Sickles to me. I pull back and put up my hands, insisting, "Oh, Potter, that's really not necessary…"

"I made you buy stationery; it's only fair that I pay the difference. My allowance is too big for me, anyway: I'll barely notice after this, I swear."

With an exasperated sigh, I take five Sickles out of the mound in his palm and thank him quickly, neglecting to mention that he's saved me the embarrassment of having to pick out something less expensive. When I exchanged my pounds for Galleons last summer, I hadn't realized that my budget would have to cover half this summer, too.

I pay up front and borrow Potter's quill to write something to Marlene, soon finding myself at an utter loss for words. "What am I supposed to write when I've only been hanging around her for two weeks?" I groan, mostly to myself.

"Wish her happy birthday, thank her for opening her home to you, tell her you've enjoyed getting to know her…" rattles Potter. I call him a smart aleck under my breath, but still, I'm grateful for the ideas. "Just make sure you say it in your words, not mine," he mentions as I struggle to control my (usually atrocious) handwriting.

"Right, like I'd ever want to sound like you," I mutter, but I make sure he notices my forgiving smile.

Letter done, I suggest that we Floo back from Honeydukes again, but Potter stops me, a bright look in his eyes. "Why not head to The Three Broomsticks for a quick butterbeer?" he invites. "On me. We've got to stay long enough to look like we're on a date, you know, and it can't have been more than an hour already."

Checking my watch, I notice that we've been here for an hour and a half already—but we've got to stay at least another hour to make it appear believable, so with nothing to lose, I take him up on the offer. The pub is as convivial as ever, and Potter flatters Madam Rosmerta just as I expected. "Butterbeers for myself and the flower," he requests with a debonair grin, and she winks at him before sauntering off to get them.

"I'm not a flower," I gripe.

He brushes a few stray hairs behind my ear and secures the lily in place in my loose ponytail. "Of course not, Red, you're a color," he agrees, like it's the most natural conclusion in the world. He takes my cheek in his hand but lets go quickly at the look on my face. "Oh, before I forget to ask, have you and Marlene made any plans as far ahead as a week from Wednesday? July 7th."

"I don't think so," I surmise, shaking my head. "Anything you had planned?"

"I have concert tickets—The Peverells." My eyebrows crease in a frown: he's not trying to take me on a proper date, is he? Potter misunderstands, though, and unnecessarily reminds me, "_Moontrimmer_? Honestly, Red, how could you forget _our song_?"

"We don't have a song," I remind him blandly. "How many tickets?"

A slight blush rises in his cheeks. "My dad knows their manager."

I gape at him, realizing. "Are you _joking_? Unlimited free tickets?"

"They're not _free_, Red, they're just… heavily discounted," says Potter hastily, his blush darkening. I beam. "I was only going to bring the guys, but I thought you and Marlene might like to come…"

"We'd love to come," I accept immediately.

He smiles bashfully and ruffles his hair. "It's not until ten o'clock, and it'll be at least a couple hours, so I was thinking we could all make a night of it at my place. I don't think—have you ever been to my house before?" I shake my head. "All right—well, Marlene will know how to get there. Bring a change of clothes, and meet me there at eight, all right?"

Rosmerta comes back with our drinks as I nod my agreement. The next hour henceforth passes uneventfully, full of our usual banter, before we prepare to leave. I tuck Marlene's gift and an envelope from Potter—two concert tickets and a "many happy returns of the day" note included—into the handbag that Marlene forced me to bring for the occasion, hoping sincerely that Marlene won't have an inexplicable urge to rifle through my bag in the next twenty-four hours.

To prevent the four-block walk, we Floo straight back to Marlene's this time, and I put on the dreamiest face I can muster. "Bye, love," says Potter affectionately in parting, and I can tell that only the warning in my eyes is stopping him from adding a peck on the cheek.

Quickly, before the McKinnons realize we're back, I tell him, "Thanks for doing this for me today, Potter." He smiles and tips his head to me, and then he's back in the hearth and out of sight.

When I go to Marlene to tell her about the concert, she beats me to the punch. "Did you make any further plans?" she asks impatiently, and I shake my head, trying to look appropriately disappointed but hopeful. "Make sure you do," she advises, "and let your guard down more next time. You know, Lily, usually, I never see you more alive than when you're with him."

I don't answer, wondering why Marlene's claim doesn't sound that far off from the truth.

* * *

I'm not quite prepared to face the entire McKinnon family when I stumble, bleary-eyed and frizzy-haired, upon all seven of them at nine o'clock in the morning. Though I'm staying in their house, I've had precious little interaction with anyone but Marlene for the past two weeks. Her parents have told me that they respect Marlene's friends' privacy, and her siblings, from the looks of it, get out of the house as much as Marlene does and otherwise keep to themselves.

Uncomfortably, I tug down my too-small nightshirt and crack an unconvincing smile. "I can come back," I offer rather awkwardly. On second thought, it probably would have been wise to get my cereal fix _after_ getting dressed, in case something like this happened.

The McKinnons seem to have other ideas, however. "Oh, no, don't be ridiculous, Lily. You're a guest in our house and perfectly within your rights to eat breakfast whenever you choose," hastens Mrs. McKinnon, pulling up a chair as she speaks. "We were just giving Marlene her gifts—you're welcome to join us."

"Gifts?" I smile—wider than usual in this house, even tired as I am—looking straight at Marlene. "In _that_ case, I do think I'll be right back…"

I dash into our shared bedroom and rummage through my trunk for the bag from yesterday. Finding it, I unceremoniously dump out the gift-wrapped assortment of chocolates and cards (well, letters, really) from me and Potter. Before I brave the kitchen again, though, I don my (modest) robe and run a brush, albeit in vain, through my hair. It's worth the extra few seconds.

I gather the gifts in my arms and hurry back into the kitchen, cutting Marlene off before she can protest. "Happy birthday—and don't tell me I shouldn't have."

She blushes, unwrapping the chocolate first. "Thanks, Lily—when were you in Honeydukes, of all places?"

"Come on, Marlene, did you honestly believe I was on a date with Potter yesterday?" I reach out to stop her when she mistakenly grabs Potter's letter instead of mine. "The other one first."

"So I shouldn't have owled Mary about you coming to your senses?" I shake my head, grinning, and her voice falls as she starts to read. "Bollocks… with her mouth, the whole school's going to think you two are an item by September…" I'm distantly concerned about just how many people will have the wrong idea about us come September first, but I push it out of my mind for the time being.

Two of her siblings, Margaret and Michael, begin to snigger uncontrollably. I roll my eyes pointedly in their direction, sparking giggles from the two youngest, Matthew and Meredith. "Behave yourselves," warns Mr. McKinnon, but his wife is smiling at me.

"Don't mind them—you know how children get," she says patiently. "Matthew's going to be a first year in September; from what I gather, Professor McGonagall is dreading his arrival."

I smile back politely as Marlene refolds my letter. "Thanks, Lily—I'm glad you're staying with me, too." We share a rare moment before she adds, "What's the second letter for?"

"From Potter—he gave it to me when I saw him yesterday."

"Black enclose anything?" she asks, quieter now. I shake my head, but her disappointed look only lasts a moment before she tears open the envelope. As the concert tickets fall into her lap, she drowns out her siblings' conversations with excited screams. He's the closer friend, but I still feel a pang of something like hurt at her decidedly more enthusiastic reaction to Potter's gift.

We leave soon after, once we've had a chance to eat and change. I take a while to clean up in the bathroom first; I had no clue how to properly remove all the makeup last night, so I entail Marlene's help in washing off the remnants today. "Remember what I said with Mary about how mascara could do you good?" I nod, at which she scolds me for almost getting makeup remover in my eyes. "I retract that."

"Glad to hear it," I say, laughing, though this time I'm careful not to move my head.

We Floo to Doc's flat; I'm getting so used to Floo powder that I barely notice the dizziness anymore, I realize as I'm straightening up. The place is your typical bachelor pad—mismatched and minimal furniture, with sparse clutter and excess junk. The couch and a patch of the coffee table are tidy, though, suggesting that he's at least _tried_ to clean the place up for us; it's hard to judge just how much effort he put into it, though, since I can't be sure how dirty he usually is.

"Marbles!" Marlene's father speaks in a smooth, low voice, and Marlene is clearly ecstatic to see him. "Happy birthday, honey. And you must be Lily?"

"Lily Evans," I confirm, then give them a moment to embrace. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dearborn."

Doc sighs—rather histrionically, I might add. "Nonsense. Call me Doc; everyone does. Or at _least_ Caradoc, if you're fond of formalities."

"If you insist, Mr. Dearborn."

He laughs (a great belly laugh that rumbles across the room and brings a smile to Marlene's eyes) and waves us away from the hearth. "Come on in, you two; don't be shy. Make yourselves at home."

Doc doesn't seem to be one for small talk. He skips the formalities and sneaks his conversations in between his actions; he's less concerned with how his daughter's year has been than how her birthday will be, and as such, he doesn't ask how we've been but how we are. His novel honesty is becoming, and I'm decidedly a fan of it just a few minutes into the occasion.

Since we can't use our wands during the holidays, he insists upon doing everything without magic, too, sometimes going out of his way to find the blatantly Muggle way. Instead of salad or sandwiches for lunch, Doc chooses reheated soup and homemade smoothies for dessert; as such, after we eat, cleanup involves wiping broth off of the stovetop and fruity vanilla ice cream off of the cabinets. "I tell you, these things weren't available when I was growing up," he defends (though neither I nor Marlene is accusing him), scrutinizing his blender. "I _told_ my sister she shouldn't have gotten it for me, that something like this would happen, but she insisted that the technology was too fascinating to let it slip by…"

"You _must've_ had a stove growing up, though, Doc," doubts Marlene, grinning at me as she wrings out her rag in the sink and sets it to the counter for a fresh attack. "I mean, the blender is one thing…"

He shrugs helplessly. I ask, mopping a pink glob off of the refrigerator, "How in touch with the Muggle world do you stay? A fair bit, of course, since your flat is Muggle, and then you still talk to family…"

"You're Muggle-born, Lils?" I nod—Doc was quick to adopt a pet name for me. "I keep up with Muggle culture, since I run into them where I live pretty often and I've got to look natural. But as far as close Muggle ties go—only my parents and sisters know about magic, because of the Statute of Secrecy, so I don't have Muggle friends apart from them. It's one thing to say hello to the woman in the flat next to yours, quite another to invite her into _your_ flat for afternoon tea when you haven't the faintest idea how to use a kettle without the help of charms. I don't know some witches and wizards do it, marrying Muggles—since by law, you can't reveal yourself for what you are until after the wedding. Not only do you have to cover most aspects of your life up while dating, but you have to win back the trust of your spouse after… it's a huge breach of trust, hiding something like that from your loved one."

"Huh," I muse. "You said you only keep in touch with immediate family?"

Doc purses his lips sympathetically. "Big extended family? That's always a toughie—I write to my cousins to stay in touch and call occasionally, but you've got to be careful about how much they know about you. Most Muggles wouldn't believe you if you told them you were a witch, but you don't want your family thinking you're crazy if they realize there's something up. I tell them about my friends and coworkers, but they probably think I'm a bit shady; none of them know exactly where I work, or where I live, for that matter."

"Do you see your cousins at all?" I follow up, carefully training my eyes to my work. My stomach is suddenly churning (and not from the soup, however old): neither Doc nor Marlene needs to know that I have sixteen cousins, or that it already kills me not to tell them about Hogwarts.

"Sometimes—always at their places," admits Doc. "But never for too long, since you're watching your tongue all the time. I'm sure you know all about this already, from family gatherings these last five years?" I nod again. "Again, you don't have to completely cut yourself off from them, but you have to be careful not to get so close that they realize anything's amiss. Aren't you glad you were raised in wizarding families, Marbles? Saves you the heartache of so much secrecy," he adds offhand to Marlene, who looks to be following our exchange avidly. I'm surprised at how callously he talks about their family situation—in Marlene's place, I'd be fairly uncomfortable keeping that wound open.

"Bit disorienting, knowing I have this whole other family that doesn't know about me," she says gruffly. "I mean, what would I talk to them about if I met them? I could never pass as a Muggle. All I ever talk about are O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, Quidditch, getting my Apparition license, the war…"

"Surely I haven't raised _that_ one-dimensional a daughter," Doc cries, flicking water from his towel at her.

Marlene squeals and ducks, nearly toppling into me. "You forget, Doc, that Mum and Neil raised me—I only live with you, what, two percent of the time?"

"They must be doing a wretched job of it for the other ninety-eight," he replies darkly, shaking his head and setting back to work. "Are the other four complete brats without my influence? Merlin, I haven't seen Maggie since long before she got into Hogwarts—I've never seen Matt or Mer out of diapers!"

Marlene's laugh rings out purer than it ever has in the dorms. "Mike's shaping up to be a little bit of a troublemaker—McGonagall's afraid of Matt coming to Hogwarts because of him, and Mike's only going into his third year, you know. Mer's a little angel, of course, but don't even get me _started_ on Maggie, she and Mike make quite the pair…"

We go on for a while, until the kitchen's cleaned up and we've retreated to the living room. Doc's trying to light a fire with a Muggle lighter—and failing, to a large extent, especially since he initially set fire to a bit of leftover Floo powder—and I'm just starting to feel comfortable when he freezes, dropping the lighter into the hearth. "_Bollocks_," he curses, straightening up and whipping out his wand. "I'm sorry, Marbles, but I have to take this—it's Dumbledore, he sent out the highest alarm—I'll be back as soon as I can, all right? I'm so sorry—"

His Disapparating crack resonates through the room and is shortly followed by Marlene's breathy sigh. "Of course. _Dumbledore_." I raise an eyebrow, and she explains moodily, "It's not Auror work, I don't know much about it—some kind of renegade program fighting the Dark Arts. The Ministry's too corrupt and _politically correct_ to do it properly, and my father just had to be one of the ones to take matters into their own hands…"

"Hey." Marlene looks up at me, the faintest red rimming her irises, and I say, "He can't help it if there's an emergency. Why not invite a few friends over? Wait it out with them. Or just go back to your mum's, if you prefer—"

"Mum doesn't know about the program," she says sharply. "Knowing Doc, he'll stay after whatever crisis there is and help the Healers… it could be two, three in the morning by the time he's back. _If_ he's back."

I realize from her tone of voice that this "program" is more serious than I had expected—and that sleeping it off is out of the question. "I—I'll owl Potter," I offer, looking for parchment. "See if he knows where Black is—"

"_No_!" barks Marlene abruptly, stock-still. I sit back down, and she loosens a little. "No," she repeats, much softer this time. "Just you."

I offer a weak half-smile. "You know," I confide after a pause, "whenever the _Prophet_ reports on an attack, I wonder how long it'll be before I see Severus' name in print."

She shoots me a look that's almost sympathetic. "Whenever there's an attack, I wonder whether Black's cousins were involved before I wonder whether Doc's all right—how sick is that?"

"It's not sick," I say, proffering an olive branch. "You care about both of them, but you see Black much more than—"

"So it's perfectly normal that I worry more about the bloke I'm shagging than the bloke who raised me," she proposes bluntly.

I don't point out that Marlene herself said hours ago that Doc hadn't raised her. "I should hope that you care about the bloke you're sleeping with," I mutter—to my chagrin, I receive no response. "Why _are_ you sleeping with him?"

"Convenience? Desire?" She laughs shrilly and wrings her hands together. "I don't even remember why it started—I know why it did for _him_, at least. He'd just found out that his cousin Bellatrix had become a Death Eater—that's what they're calling his followers, you know, Death Eaters—and I found him in a right state in the library—the library, of all places, Lily, come on. And I asked what was wrong and he just—he _grabbed_ me and…"

I give her a moment, absorbing the news (and hoping that I'll still be able to study with a clear head in the Hogwarts library from now on). "Why'd you kiss him back?"

Marlene cracks a bitter grin. "It was right after Easter break. I love my brothers and sisters, Neil's wonderful, but Mum and I have our ups and downs—we were on a down that holiday. And no matter how hard they try to make me fit in at home… and to come back to school after a week of that and suddenly have this warm body there that wants you is…" She gives a ragged sigh and slouches. "I break it off when times are good, but he always comes back. I think—we both need him to come back."

I want to advise her to fix it or end it, but we're not yet in a place where she'd heed my recommendation. So I pay back her confidence: "Have I ever told you that I think it's Severus's fault my sister hates me?"

We talk like this well into the night, well past midnight, well past any last chance of _not_ getting to know each other, since Marlene insists on waiting up for Doc. By the time I drift off to sleep, she's still slumped on the couch, eyes wide open and looking numbly ahead.

* * *

**A/N:** Beta'd August 19th, 2009.


	5. June 30th

**June 30****th**

I follow Marlene's example when she doesn't bring up her birthday to me again. That's not to say that the subject isn't broached with others; indeed, Marlene seems insistent to act as though everything had been normal, as though Doc hadn't rushed off to fight barely an hour after lunch and left us alone. When we return to the McKinnon household the next day (I don't see Doc at all; Marlene tells me he'd left for work already when she wakes me), her family doesn't seem surprised that she doesn't discuss the day in great detail, and her reply owls to birthday wishes from the other Gryffindors read lightly from my vantage point over her shoulder. Only perceptive Margaret comes close to suspecting anything out of the ordinary, but she's careful to mention it when neither her parents nor her siblings are around.

"So you had fun?" she prompts, hanging on Marlene's arm and almost whining.

"Yeah, sure. You've met Doc; he's great," says Marlene, waving a hand vaguely and trying, unsuccessfully, to tug her arm out of her half-sister's grip.

Margaret persists, "But there was that Death Eater attack—it was all over the papers this morning, made the cover of yesterday's _Evening Prophet_. He's an Auror, isn't he? Didn't he have to go in and help?"

"Moody gave him the day off," replies Marlene a little too sharply. "Don't you have some kind of prank to plan with Matt?"

"Didn't we tell you it's on _you_?" huffs Margaret, but she lets go and runs off to find her brother without further comment.

At my enablement, Marlene continues to act almost _too_ normal, and she has me convinced by the end of the week that most of her birthdays are, at least in part, spent alone. Even the next time she sees the Marauders—at another Quidditch game hosted by the Prewetts—she doesn't flinch, even when Black sweeps her into his arms with a whispered "happy birthday, Leigh" but leaves her empty-handed. Potter, too, notices nothing, making mere small talk instead: "You got my gift all right, Marlene?"

"Of course—you should have expected that, with Lily delivering," Marlene scolds him playfully (I'm happy to see that my blush isn't nearly as bright as it would have been a few weeks ago). "Thanks so much for the tickets! The letter was lovely, too—it was sweet of you."

Potter grins and tackles her in a hug as well, once Black lets go. "Have a good birthday? I was sorry I couldn't see you, but I know you always spend the day with your uncle…" An uncle—so that's how she passes Doc off at school.

"Oh, no, don't be. It was wonderful," she assures him. With his face buried in her shoulder, he doesn't notice the unusual brightness in her eyes. Still, I find it appalling that the only person to catch on to something funny is a fourteen-year-old without a real understanding of the war.

Potter pulls back and surveys her (though, obviously to me, not closely enough). "I'm glad," he says, and he sounds sincere. "I'll see you on Wednesday, then? Eight o'clock."

"Eight o'clock," she repeats, smiling, before she darts off to join her team with Black.

It feels like eight o'clock on Wednesday can't come soon enough. Though being around the other Gryffindors still makes me a touch uncomfortable, it's hard not to get excited when I've never been to a concert before, let alone a wizarding one. Besides, Potter's been bearable all summer thus far, and I'm more than a little curious to meet his parents—and I've put off Lupin's invitation to Tuney's wedding far too long.

I put off packing until the day of, so that I won't get too far ahead of myself. "Should we bring sleeping bags?" I ask Marlene as I throw together a knapsack for the night: pajamas and Muggle clothes for the morning, a hairbrush and clip, toothbrush and toothpaste…

"Believe me, we won't need them," scoffs Marlene as I search frantically through my trunk for dental floss. "We'll be in the guestrooms."

Guest_rooms_? "How big is this house, exactly?" I practically interrogate her, finding the floss and tossing it in with my things.

She just smiles, zipping up her own duffel bag (why it's necessary for one night's worth of personal items, I'm not entirely sure). "Big enough to accommodate a lot more than five guests," she says simply as she watches me make a final scan of my sack before slamming it (and my trunk) shut. "Ready to go?"

"But it's only seven-thirty," I protest mildly, checking my watch.

Marlene laughs. "As if that would ever stop _them_ from showing up early." I remember, suddenly, back to that first day of summer, when Potter caught me early in the morning in Marlene's kitchen, still in my pajamas. It feels like so long ago already…

"Fair enough," I accept, tossing the knapsack over my shoulder and straightening my robes. "You're sure you're supposed to wear wizard robes to this? It seems a little suspicious, a congregation of wizards in bizarre attire—"

"Trust me," says Marlene loudly over my mumblings about the Statute of Secrecy. "You'll look sorely out of place wearing anything else, except maybe a Peverells T-shirt, and you don't have one of those, do you? Let's go," she decides as I'm shaking my head and sighing.

I join her at the much-frequented hearth and help her lug her duffel bag into the fire with her after she's tossed in her Floo powder. "Helene's Manor!" she bellows into the flames, and I soon follow suit.

After the journey, I stumble out of a rather spacious fireplace into a room with cream walls and hardwood floors that squeak under my flats. "Marlene?" I call—she doesn't answer.

Hitching up my rucksack, I step through one of the room's two doors into what looks to be an ornately decorated ballroom. Uninhibited by the classmates I'm not quite ready to get to know, I gasp—audibly—and walk to the center of the room, pushing to the back of my mind the better sense to go back through the other door and look for Potter or Marlene. After a brief glimpse at the wide, mullioned windows—while I appreciate beauty, I've never been much interested in architecture—I lay down my sack and start to revolve on the start, dancing with an imaginary partner.

I trip and fall mid-leap when there's a knock on the door, and I spot Remus Lupin looking embarrassed in the doorway. Feeling rather foolish, I rub my bum and wince as I get up. "Er—hello," I greet him self-consciously. "I came out of the fireplace there, and I didn't want to get lost, and—"

He smiles, shaking his head, and comes into the ballroom. "Don't worry about it. There's about twelve fireplaces in this place hooked up to the Floo Network; it was bad planning on Prongs's part not to pick you and Marlene up. We only went looking for you because Marlene found us in the living room—she's been here before, so she knows her way around. We didn't realize you'd come so early, else we'd have found you by now." I bite my lip, still feeling uncomfortable. "You're all right?"

"Yeah. I dance a fair amount at home; my bum can take it from experience," I joke, cracking a timid smile. Lupin grins back and extends a hand, to which I simply stare, wide-eyed.

"Honestly, Lily," he teases, grabbing my dangling hand himself, "you didn't think I'd catch you dancing like that and get away without sharing your expertise, did you?"

I blush and take his hand, joining him in a basic box step. "If Potter catches us like this—"

"Prongs would have done the same thing," says Lupin earnestly. All things considered, he's probably right.

"You know, Lupin—Remus," I correct myself at his glare, "speaking of dancing, I've been meaning to ask you—would you like to be my date to my sister's wedding?" He raises an eyebrows. "Well, not my date, exactly—she didn't even send me an invitation, we're not on the best of terms, but according to my mum, the invitation _would_ have been made out to 'Lily Evans and guest,' and Severus and I—"

"Breathe," advises Lupin, and I break off, tripping over his feet. "What's the date of the wedding? Because if it's this weekend, I've already made plans—"

Relief washes over me: is that a yes? "No, it's on the eighteenth, but we'd be staying at my house that whole weekend."

He doesn't hesitate for long. "I'd love to come," he assures me, spinning me in place.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Thanks," I say gratefully, squeezing his hand. "Think we should be getting back?"

Lupin nods and leads me out of the ballroom. "I can't believe you Flooed into the _ballroom antechamber_," he says to himself as we pass through the room I came through—I jog to catch up to him, having gone back into the ballroom for my knapsack. "Almost everyone comes in at one of the living or dining rooms…"

"_One of_ them?" I speak up curiously, trailing him down a narrow hall and continuing down a winding staircase.

"Yes, well, it's a huge manor," Lupin admits, breathing a little harder than normal as we spiral down. "It was bought into Prongs's family about a century and a half ago; it used to be Helena Ravenclaw's, and you can imagine what kind of wealth _she_ inherited from her mother to build this place."

"Helene's Manor," I repeat under my breath, and Lupin nods, reaching the landing. "But wouldn't it be in the family of Ravenclaw's heir?"

Lupin turns around and shoots me a surprised look. "Ravenclaw doesn't have an heir," he informs me. "From the number of times I've seen you carrying around _Hogwarts, A History_, I'd think you would know that."

"That's debatable," I mutter, but Lupin doesn't seem to hear me, instead leading me out of a wider hallway into a large living room, where Potter, Black, Pettigrew, and Marlene are seated.

"Lily Evans, lady and gentlemen," presents Lupin, grinning at me. The ensuing cacophony of greetings makes me blush again as I drop my sack on an end table and myself in the armchair next to it.

Pettigrew waves to me from one of the loveseats, and Black comments, "Good of you to join us, Evans. T-minus two hours…"

I give them both a small smile, then direct my attention to Potter. "Thanks again for the tickets and for letting us stay and everything," I tell him, even as ruffles his hair with chagrin. "You really didn't have to go out of your way like that."

"'S no problem," he assures me, grinning, as Marlene thanks him again for the "amazing" birthday gift. I notice that she and Black are on opposite ends of the room, even though everyone here knows about them. Getting up, he adds, "Now that we've located you, care to choose a room to sleep in tonight?"

I shrug and give the others a parting wave, grabbing the bag and following him out into the hall. "All the bedrooms are on the fourth and fifth floor," Potter's saying, and I sigh as I head back up yet another staircase with him. At my expression, he chuckles and decides, "In that case, we'll put you on the fourth. There's ten bedrooms, though if you want a private bathroom, you'll have to go up to the fifth… no, I didn't think so. And of those ten, three are already taken by me, Moony, and Wormtail—Padfoot, Marlene, and my parents are on the fifth—so you'll have seven to choose from… that enough of a selection for you?"

"This house is brilliant—would you mind much if I moved in with you?" I say—breathlessly, as we mount a second staircase.

Potter laughs loudly and grabs my hand, kissing it (I pull back in mock disgust). "Moving fast, are we, Red? And I thought you'd at least allow me the liberty of kissing you first."

"Not since you've already allowed _yourself_ that liberty," I chide him, making a show of wiping my hand on my robes. "Besides, haven't you heard? Lupin and I are madly in love."

Potter stops abruptly; I promptly smash into his back and expect to fall the _very_ long way back down to the ground floor, but he grabs my hand again just in time, this time with an iron grip. "You and Moony?" he says, his voice strangled.

I raise my eyebrows. "I was kidding. You don't honestly think anyone I refer to by surname has a shot with me, do you?" Potter laughs nervously, then breaks out into the start of a real smile—which quickly fades to a sort of open-mouthed confusion. (Presumably, he'd thought he might have a shot—then realized that I still call him Potter.) "And it's not a date, exactly, but I'm bringing him to my sister's wedding."

"I thought I was your default fake date," mumbles Potter, not budging. "I thought—"

"Check back with me on that after we've become mates," I suggest. "Do you mind…?"

He looks around wildly and runs his fingers through his hair, harrowed. "Right," he says to himself, "right…" and without another word, he whirls around and practically marches back up the staircase.

I tear after him, my backpack whipping behind me as we curl upwards. "What, now you're cross with me because I invited Lupin to a family function? Merlin, Potter, it's not like we're betrothed or anything; what right do _you_ have to—"

"I don't know about you, Red, but _I_ consider you a mate," he retorts—but he sounds wearier than he does angry. "And I thought that if you could stand to pretend to date me for a full day to McKinnon, then you'd be more than happy to invite me as a friend. How many times have you ever even _talked_ to Moony? Four? Five?"

"I'm supposed to bring a _guest_, not necessarily a _mate_. A month ago, I would have invited Severus, but since that's not exactly an option and you lot have never treated me right when it would have been, I've got to start from scratch with picking my mates, haven't I, and I'd rather start with someone I don't already have a history of animosity with!" I burst in a rush.

We've stopped again, having reached the landing of the manor's third story, and Potter is just _staring_ at me—staring like he's never really seen me before. "I've never wanted anything but friendship from you, Red," he says intently. (I snort derisively.) "I mean, of course I think you're attractive—I've thought that since first year—and I'll be the first to admit now that I know you better that maybe I've approached you the wrong way before, but I've only ever tried to be open with you, and for five years you've shot me down; and I take it because you're worth the effort and the trials and the mood swings for the rare moment when we're in a good place, you know? Because we always hit a good place, every now and then, for a couple days or maybe a week and a half at most, but then something like _this_ happens where you shut me out without any good reason, and I—"

"Merlin, will you quit trying to play the guilt card and taking everything so personally? Or are you just dragging out your monologue because you love to hear yourself talk?" I half shout at him. "I don't see how my inviting Lupin to Tuney's wedding has _anything_ to do with shutting you out, and I _really_ don't see how you've ever thought that we've been in a good place before with you tormenting Severus all the time, but there's one thing you're right about—having _approached me the wrong way before_. I shouldn't even have come here today, I should have known you'd get around to antagonizing me sooner or later…"

"_Antagonizing_ you?" For the first time today, Potter's tone shifts to resentment. "Like I'd really try and _antagonize_ the girl I've been chasing after for all this time? Like I wouldn't rather be snogging you senseless than having you pick fights with me when I get the rare chance to see you?"

"If you're _really _that fond of me, you aren't doing a very good job of making me believe you," I spit, crossing my arms.

In the time of about half a second, he goes from glaring at me to grabbing me—cradling my head in one hand, looping the free arm around my waist, and breathing me in. It's softer than the grope I would have expected from him, but I don't give myself long enough to identify appropriate adjectives before I shove him away, fuming. "What in the _bloody hell_ was that, Potter? Did I give the impression that it's all right to hug me?" I nearly shriek, practically shaking.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Red—did I misunderstand you when you told me to prove that I'm fond of you?" he says sardonically. "Because my words and subtler actions haven't seemed to cut it for the last, I don't know, five years."

I cling, shaking, to my rucksack. "Just take me up to the fourth floor," I demand.

"Stop acting like I hate you," he shoots right back. I roll my eyes but don't complain, so he turns on his heels and jogs up the final flight of steps. "The doors at the ends of the hall are bathrooms," he says, his voice clipped and bitter. "I'm guessing you'll want a room away from mine?"

A flicker of something like hurt flashing through his eyes at my nod, he leads me to the right of the stairs and throws open the second to last door on the left. "You think this'll work?" I nod again, barely looking into the room as I toss my sack on the bed, and proceed to follow him down all four flights of stairs without a single word from either of us.

The tension only eases at the end of the concert—during the last song, in fact—when Potter asks me to dance to (what else?) "Moontrimmer" with him. Though still inwardly fuming about the fight, I can recognize an apology when I see one, even if it takes a rather unconventional form—but then, that's to be expected from Potter. So with a somewhat fabricated huff on my part, I accept the invitation, then burst into laughter when he unceremoniously pulls me into a fast-paced jitterbug in the middle of a rock song. "Where'd you learn to dance, Potter?" I ask, giggling, as we attract a considerable number of stares.

"My mum forced me to take lessons," he says easily, looking surprised that I'm keeping up. "What's your excuse?"

"Childhood hobby—I forced my mum to _let_ me take lessons," I say right back, grinning.

He shifts quickly to the tango just when I'm getting into it, claiming that the jitterbug "really isn't my comfort zone"—but I don't complain, just try to keep time to the music and hope that Marlene isn't paying us any attention. Potter sings softly throughout the song, and I catch pieces of the lyrics when he pulls me close.

_I know I'm in too deep, but soon you will see…_

Most of The Peverells' songs are short—under three minutes, even—but we get out of the concert (which started at ten, mind you) at nearly midnight. Though Potter has backstage passes for us, Lupin persuades him to head straight home; indeed, the pallor of his skin and bags under his eyes convince me that he must be ill, but when I ask, he just shrugs and says he's not used to staying up late.

So we head for the nearest fireplace and squeeze our ways through, each accepting a pinch of Floo powder from a bored-looking usher. "You'd better go in with me, Red, don't want you getting lost again," Potter instructs me, and I nod and step alongside him into the green flames.

We come out in another anteroom, but not the same as before—there's a loveseat pushed about a meter away from an adjacent wall, and the walls are painted rosy-red. "I don't know what it is about you and these fireplaces, Red," he says, dumbfounded. "_Everyone_ comes out at the living room…"

"Where does this room lead?" I inquire, the heels Marlene forced me to wear clicking against the wood floor.

"Study," says Potter shortly. "D'you want to take a look around? We've got a huge collection of Muggle books, you know."

I perk up at the Muggle mention. "Fiction or nonfiction?" I ask, following him inside.

The study is pitch-black, but after a bit of rummaging on a mahogany desk close to the door way, he's able to light a gas lamp. A smile involuntarily crosses my lips; clearly, Potter was understating. The "study" is roughly the size of the Hogwarts library's Restricted Section, judging from the times I've been there for coursework, and is furnished up to its (very high) ceiling with bookshelves crammed full of ancient-looking books. "All right, it's official, I'm _definitely_ camping out here sometime," I say frankly; Potter snorts with laughter and hangs in the doorway as I browse through the rows of shelves.

"It's mostly nonfiction, but there's a shelf of fantasy fiction somewhere in the back," he tells me. "Mum's always been fascinated by Muggle fantasy—thinks that what they dream up about magic is riveting."

I laugh softly, running my forefinger over a dusty line of books. "I went through a fantasy stage myself before Hogwarts," I murmur. "Right after Severus told me I was a witch. Tuney and I must have checked out every fantasy novel in the public library…"

"Snape?" intones Potter. I turn to face him; he's gone stiff, his knuckles white from his grip on the desk.

I quirk an eyebrow at him. "I thought you knew about me and Severus—you were quick to throw that in my face on the first day of the holidays."

"No—I did. I do," he asserts, looking down. "You just caught me off guard, that's all… Red, how far did—how close did you and Snape get, by the end?"

I'm startled by his tone of voice—James Potter, of all people, is not known for self-consciousness. "Well," I begin, reluctant to continue; Severus is a wound I haven't had time to heal. "He—he was my best friend, you know that. We got off on the wrong foot, actually—Tuney was there, and she didn't take to him… but he kept seeking me out, and we would just—we'd talk, all day, for three years. He never… I just can't wrap my head around it, you know? The blood prejudice. It wasn't ever an issue with him until Hogwarts, and he'd always tell me not to listen to what people said about my parentage, that it didn't matter… he was just Sev, when he was with me. A little awkward, maybe, but mostly just shy. He was always so sweet…"

I don't realize until Potter steps forward with his handkerchief outstretched that my eyes are welling up. I offer him a choked laugh and dab at them hastily, grateful not quite to be crying. "Thanks," I say, embarrassed.

He just nods and shoves his hands in his pockets with the handkerchief that I hand back to him. "None of us could ever understand what you saw in him, you know," Potter admits clumsily, after a while—I haven't the slightest idea how long.

"I know," I confirm, turning my head. "You wouldn't know—he was almost a different person, whenever he was around me. He could be a great man, if not for his friends; they're such awful influences on him…"

After what feels like forever, Potter suggests, "You reckon we should get to bed now? They're probably all wondering where we've got off to."

"Right, yeah," I agree, waiting as he turns out the light. The study is thrown into darkness again; I keep close to his heels and try to remember the path from here to the staircase leading to the fourth floor. "Promise you'll take me back here tomorrow?"

Potter chuckles, but he's learned his lesson about stopping me in stairwells and doesn't slow down. "You're awfully flighty, aren't you, Red? Hate me, then love me…"

I shoot him my discomfited smile—the one with the bitten lip that's half the size of my usual grin—and I don't apologize for the fight, for apologies no longer feel necessary.

In my borrowed bedroom—it's much larger and better furnished than I could have expected, now that I have the patience to look around—Marlene is waiting for me when Potter drops me off. I can tell that he's hovering out in the hall as she orders, "Details, _now_," and I catch his light chuckle before I pointedly close the door to him.

"There's not much to tell, really," I fib, rummaging through my knapsack for pajamas and panties.

I can tell, though, that she's not convinced. "Oh, and you think none of us heard you two rowing in the stairwell earlier? You quarrel, you barely _look_ at each other for two hours—then you're dancing at the concert and disappear for an hour after? I doubt that you got J lost in his own house, Lily."

"It's been an hour?" I ask casually, checking my watch and starting to untie my robes. "Must have lost track of time… felt like ten minutes, really." By the look on her face, Marlene is unimpressed. "All right, all right… we fought and made up, you know that, and then we came out in the antechamber to a study full of Muggle fantasy and nonfiction. I got a big caught up in browsing the shelves, and then Potter made me go to bed. That's all—it _is_!"

Marlene sighs, disgruntled—apparently, I spend enough time in the Hogwarts library to pull off the lie. "You two have a bizarre relationship. Honestly, you couldn't get any rockier with the bloke…"

"You know, technically, I could," I point out, tugging on my outgrown nightshirt. "We could be like you and Black."

Marlene throws one of my pillows at me; I deflect it by bouncing it off of my dressing gown, which I stretch out like a net. "You were all over Potter and Lupin tonight, but you didn't dance _once_ with him, even though everyone in this house knows why you chose a room on the same floor as his," I observe, wrapping the dressing gown around my shoulders and plopping down next to her on my unnecessarily king-sized bed.

Flushing, she retorts, "At least I have the decency not to flash my love life all over the place. Can't say the same for yourself, I'm afraid."

I throw the fallen pillow back at her; she squeaks in panic, then lapses into giggles. "Potter has nothing to do with my love life! I don't even _have_ a love life."

"Really? So Snape never _once_ tried to lay one on you all those years—?" She wiggles her eyebrows (rather comically, I must admit).

"_Marlene_!"

She sighs contentedly, rolling onto her stomach. "I never thought we'd get here, you know?" Marlene says. She continues in response to my confused expression, "To the part where we can gossip freely about things like _boys_. Not only would I never have expected your hormones to develop that far—"

I bombard her with another onslaught of pillows. She's prepared this time, though, and barely even flinches. "I figured that if you ever connected to any of the girls, it would be Alice."

"Alice?" I repeat, startled. "Really? I mean, not that there's anything _wrong_ with Alice, but she's just so…"

Marlene fills in the blanks for me. "Perky, brainy, insufferably perfect. Merlin, Lily, the two of you are practically twins."

I blush a little—I wouldn't have phrased it _exactly_ like that. "I was going to say 'placid'. It's unnerving, really. It's like she doesn't have any weaknesses—"

"You know, you act the same way most of the time," she informs me, glowing. "I always thought that out of all of us, you'd probably latch onto Alice and drive everyone else mad for the rest of time, but you've actually turned out to have a personality, you know that? I wouldn't have pegged you to have one before now, honestly."

Rolling my eyes, I shoot back, "Yeah, thanks. You're not as shallow as I thought, either."

Indignantly, Marlene scoffs, "Since when do people think I'm _shallow_?"

"Well, you don't exactly go around admitting that you have actual depth to people—it makes you look flaky," I confess.

This time, when she hits me with the pillows, it's full-out war.


	6. July 8th

**July 8****th**

Before I remember where I am, I'm a bit confused the next morning when I wake to the combined scents of freshly baked pancakes and unwashed feet. I take a few seconds to adjust before having the good sense to bolt out of bed and away from the offending feet—Marlene's. "Way to put a damper on my sense of smell," I mutter, rubbing my arms in the cold shock of having ridden myself of blankets.

"And here I thought I was doing you a favor," comes a voice from behind me. I whirl around—Black, holding out a breakfast tray and looking all too at ease. "Then again, Prongs _does_ tell me I tend to reek of wet dog in the mornings."

"Oh, I didn't mean you," I assure him, grabbing my dressing robe off the floor and wrapping myself in it (I'd noticed that he wasn't looking where my eyes were). "I meant Marlene's feet—does she always sleep with her head at the foot of the bed?"

Black shrugs and thrusts the tray out at me. "I wouldn't know—you're the one who sleeps in her dorm. You going to eat this or what?"

"I assumed it was for her," I reply honestly, jerking my head at Marlene (who lets out a fairly unattractive snore).

"Right, like Marlene can hold anything down within an hour of waking up—why else d'you think she wakes up at five ever day?" he retorts, dropping it in my lap. A bit of orange juice splashes on my dressing gown, but I don't complain—a simple spell will take the stain out back at Hogwarts.

Instead, I suppress a blush at knowing so little about my Hogwarts roommate—by the day, it becomes more and more obvious how isolated I've been from the rest of the house all this time. "I still think it's a bit fishy that you made me breakfast," I persist, fiddling with the provided utensils: for some reason, he'd given me a spoon instead of a knife.

"You'd be right to, if I'd made it for you," Black agrees, sitting on the bed and scooting at least a meter away from me. Old habits die hard. "Prongs's mum had the good sense to cook everyone breakfast at eight in the morning, so she put Prongs and me on breakfast-in-bed duty. Eat up."

"Potter let you take my room?" I say skeptically, sawing through the pancakes with the fork's edge (Black looks thoroughly amused by this).

"No, his mum _made_ me take your room," Black corrects, yawning. "Doesn't trust him alone with you in here—she wasn't banking on Marlene's… aromatic company."

I snort through a mouthful of orange juice and dab delicately at my face, hoping he won't notice the trickle of juice dripping from my nose (he does, of course, and laughs loudly enough to elicit a snore from Marlene). "You know, I think Potter was right about you; you do smell a bit like wet dog," I goad, ripping off another chunk of pancake. "Don't mention to him that I agreed with him on something, though; I might have a coronary from the shock of it."

Black grins. "All right, but don't be surprised if I leak it to Moony or Wormtail, completely by accident, of course."

"Fair enough," I consent, tilting my head. Black is silent as I chew through my pancakes, idly wishing that Mrs. Potter had had the foresight to add a touch more syrup. When I'm nearly done, Marlene gives a great snort and bolts upright: this wake-up, too, I don't recognize (but then, I sleep much later than does she).

"Morning, sunshine," greets Black, his voice softening. Marlene stretches and smiles up at him; he bounces into the center of the bed and crawls over to put an arm around her.

Awkwardly, I decide, "I'll just go give this back to Mrs. Potter, then."

Marlene is too groggy to care, grinning lazily at me, but Black is quick to protest: "Oh, no, Evans, that's all right, I can—"

"Oh, no, it's fine, really," I insist, downing the last of my orange juice and getting up. "I'll see you two in a bit, then?" Black looks like he's about to complain, but Marlene shushes him with a ferocious-looking kiss on the lips, and I step out, making faces at him until I close the door.

Once out in the hall, I retrace my steps from last night to find my way down to the living room, then wander about and look aimlessly for the kitchen (I remember Potter having mentioned that it was somewhere on the first floor). I'm a bit surprised at Marlene's forwardness with Black—right in front of me, no less, when they barely look at each other with others in the room—but I figure that she's groggy of thought this early in the morning.

"Evans?" It's Pettigrew, looking a bit startled to see me—and given my current wardrobe and the condition of my hair, I can't say I blame the boy. "Where's Padfoot? Mrs. Potter will be angry—she thought it was sweet that he was staying with you, but he's, er, _not_ with you."

I smile—unlike with all the other Gryffindors, I don't feel intimidated in the slightest by Pettigrew, who's the least impressive but possibly the sweetest of the bunch. "He did stay with me, actually, but Marlene slept in my room last night after we were up late talking, and I thought it would be a good time to bow out."

"Good idea," says Pettigrew fervently. "Marlene tends to give him, erm, thoroughly nonverbal greetings in the morning, if you catch my drift. Anyway, do you want me to take you to the kitchen? Not that you look lost, but—"

"That would be great, Pettigrew," I accept, nodding. "Thanks."

He flushes pink and leads me down a few sharp turns, then opens a heavy wooden door and bows theatrically. Grinning at him, I step into the kitchen, where Potter and Lupin are laughing loudly with a middle-aged woman who must be Potter's mother. "Mrs. Potter?" I introduce myself, stepping forward with the tray and place settings (now that I look at them, the pattern looks to be fairly expensive). "I don't believe we've met yet; I'm Lily Evans…"

She knows just what to make of me, waving off further salutations as she takes the tray and washes it with a jet of water from her wand. "Lily, Lily, of course. Dorea Potter, a pleasure to meet you… Charlus had to get to work, but he will be so sad he missed you, you're such a lovely young woman."

Potter talks over his mother, adding, "You're looking especially lovely this morning, if I do say so myself, Red." My face turns an array of colors, and I watch my feet and play with a curl of my hair (though with its tangles, it's starting to resemble a dreadlock).

"Don't embarrass your mate, James," snaps Mrs. Potter, pointing her wand accusatorily at her son and spraying him with the gushing water.

"Mum, the _hair_!" cries Potter, wriggling out of his shirt and using it to dry his hair, which is _almost_ flat to his head with all the water. I pointedly look away from his chest.

Pettigrew adds, proving a needed distraction from Potter as he steps in with me, "You know, Dorea, Prongs wasn't necessarily insinuating that Lily _doesn't_ look lovely; you could argue it only comes off like that since you pointed out the possibility that she might not…"

Potter nods fervently in Pettigrew's (and, thus, his own) defense, but Mrs. Potter raises the wand warningly in both of their directions, though she's stopped the jet of water. The words die on Pettigrew's lips and fade into an incoherent mumble, though Potter looks all too relaxed.

"Come have a seat, Lily, Wormtail," offers Lupin, pulling out two chairs. Pettigrew shakes his head, dithering something about having been about to brush his teeth when he'd found me, so I take the seat nearest Lupin and smile in thanks. He's not looking much better than he was yesterday, I notice: though the dark rings under his eyes have gone down, I'm sure his skin wasn't that pale a week ago, and there's something weary about the way he carries himself.

Relatively confident in his hair's disorder, Potter pulls his shirt on, to my relief, and speaks up. "Red, where's Padfoot? Why didn't he come in with you?"

"Marlene woke up right when I was finishing breakfast—thanks for cooking, Mrs. Potter," I add before I forget. She just scowls modestly at me and busies herself putting away dishes. "I thought I'd give them some privacy."

"More like you'd get nightmares from them if you didn't," mutters Potter, looking green. "She crashed in your room last night?"

I assent, "We were up late… I don't even remember falling asleep."

"Gossiping?" suggests Potter, his eyes twinkling.

"Keep it to yourself, dear, he's not worth telling," Mrs. Potter advises me (Potter grumbles something about "bias against me" and "bloody feminist movement").

I chuckle quietly and tell him aside, "You'll want to be careful, Potter—I hear that _real_ feminists can be rather militant. Mrs. Potter," I continue, raising my voice, "would you mind much if I stayed here today? Potter was showing me your Muggle study when we Flooed into its antechamber last night, and I was hoping to get the chance to take a look at some of your books…"

"Of course, Lily," she agrees immediately, chuckling a little since I called her son by surname. "Only you'll have to stay through dinner, too; Charlus would positively _love_ to get the chance to meet you…"

I start to say something about staying with Marlene, but Potter interrupts, pouting. "C'mon, Red, we're having tenderloin tonight, it'll blow your mind." I raise an eyebrow but consent nevertheless: Mr. and Mrs. McKinnon are both vegetarians.

So I stay for the day. It's the first time I've been away from Marlene for more than a few hours all summer, and to my surprise, I rather miss her. It's painfully obvious, after living with her for so long, that she needs a real mate as much as I need a mate at all, and from our codependence has come a mutual understanding—even the budding of a friendship. Potter is lively (albeit pesky) company, every so often bursting into the study to read over my shoulder and provide a running commentary on the wizarding misinterpretation of this or that, but I've gotten used to hearing Marlene's blunt revelations and unashamed gossip, and he can't quite compete with _that_ level of honesty.

What he lacks in candor, though, he certainly compensates for in intensity. He comes in with a tray for lunch—beef stew, tossed salad, and mineral water—around two o'clock and asks offhand, "Have you even gone out to use the loo yet?"

"What's it to you if I have a small bladder?" I ask right back, still poring over Patricia McKillip's _The Forgotten Beasts of Eld_.

Potter shrugs and sidles on top of the desk, snatching up my book and losing my place. "Gotten into Mum's British Fantasy Society collection, have you?"

I blink. "Your mum's a member of the British Fantasy Society?"

He snorts and extends the tray toward me. "Of course not; are you kidding? The Ministry'd never let her risk it, with the Statute of Secrecy and all."

Nodding, I accept the tray. "She doesn't have to cater to me all day, you know. First breakfast-in-bed, now this…"

"Ah, she loves it," Potter assures me, taking a swig from the water bottle. "She's a respected Healer in her own right, but she gets really into all the domestic stuff. Just take the food without question."

I raise my eyebrows as I snatch back my water. "Mineral water? Is this a joke?"

He shakes his head and grins. "Believe it," he counters, then pauses as I start on the soup. "You really shouldn't be holed up in here all day, Red, it's no good for the soul."

"For the soul. Really."

"I watch you sometimes," Potter tells me in earnest, taking another sip of water (drinking liberally, now that I've established I don't want it). "And it's not just about your looks. Once there's more than, oh, three people in the room, you just close up, and—you don't talk or smile or _laugh_ at all—"

"So I don't feel comfortable in big groups of people," I say, shrugging, through a mouthful of lettuce and tomato. "Is there the problem?"

He claps suddenly and points at me, like I've just paved the way for some huge revelation. "But that's just the thing; you're not yourself around them—I don't think I've seen you talk with your mouth full _once_ until just now, you know that? I'll bet you barely even know the other girls, just me and Snape."

"And what makes you think you know me?" There's that question again, the one he can't seem to properly answer, whether his fault or mine.

"You let go when it's just us," he responds, voice lower now, as if he's speaking over a track of melancholy music, acting in one of the soaps my mum likes. "It's not what I know, it's how I bring it out."

I hold his gaze steadily for a while, then slurp indifferently at my stew. Gradually, a grin breaks over his face, and he says with borderline delight, "You don't _care_."

"Nope," I say needlessly, stabbing bits of salad with my fork. He needn't know that I'm at least a little intrigued by his line of attack.

"Oh, but this changes everything, Red," he says, his smile hardly fading. "You don't even _mind_."

Potter goes quiet—awfully quiet—for a while as I finish lunch and make progress on the novel; he just sips at my water and keeps reading over my shoulder, then offers to take the tray back for me once I'm done. "Be sure to tell your mum thanks for me," I insist, and though he nods and assures me he will, I strongly doubt his sincerity.

For the rest of the day, Potter returns to his usual peskiness and banter—the rest of the weekend, in fact, after Mrs. Potter insists I stay a few extra days. "Feel free to invite Marlene, too, honey," she tells me, but Marlene declines, citing summer homework—though I know for a fact that Black hasn't been at the manor and therefore suspect her reasoning.

We're falling into a routine of sorts by the time I finally catch the other Marauders around the next day. I've come out of the study to look for a bathroom when I stumble upon Potter with Lupin and Pettigrew in a corridor, arguing heatedly in low voices. "I just can't believe you invited her here for the weekend, Prongs. Of _all_ days…" Lupin's saying when I cross them. I recognize myself as the subject of the conversation immediately and don't take another step closer, hovering in the arch.

"_I_ didn't invite her, my mum did," Potter insists, folding his arms. "What am I supposed to do, kick her out? 'Hey, Red, you've got to sneak out a day early because I have to be somewhere Saturday night that you can't know about.' That's subtle."

"You don't _have_ to come," Pettigrew says meekly, glancing warily down the hall (I duck behind the doorway out of eyeshot). "Padfoot and I can make do without you—"

He says shortly, "I'm coming—I'm not missing this. I'll figure something out about Red; even if she finds out we're up to something, she'll keep her mouth shut. I know that about her."

"_Merlin_, Prongs," sighs Lupin, clearly hung up on whatever issue they're discussing. "Don't you realize that you're dragging _Lily Evans_ into this? Who knows how much Snape told her the last time? She could still be wrapped around his finger, for all you know."

Bewildered, I strain to listen as Pettigrew further lowers his voice. "We already know he's a Death Eater; he could have gotten her involved in that. And with her permission to spill the beans, they'd jump all over this."

Potter comes fast to my defense. "She's not. She's not even mates with him anymore. Have a little faith, why don't you?"

"Yeah, well, just because _you_ think she can do no wrong—" persists Pettigrew.

"No one knows exactly what went on between them," Lupin says darkly. "Or whether they'll make up. You've heard the rumors about it—whether it was just friendship or a relationship, even that they'd practice Dark magic on each other…"

"Lily would never sink to that," says Potter, and his voice is shaking. "And just for that comment, I'm not going to hide this from her."

He practically flies down the corridor away from them, and I hasten back a few steps and make like I'm just now walking toward the doorway. Before we collide, I hear Lupin call at his retreating figure, "It's not yours to tell, Prongs, don't say anything you'll regret…"

"Red!" exclaims Potter, slamming into me—I can tell he's raising his voice for Lupin and Pettigrew's sakes. "I—what are you doing down here?"

"Got lost looking for the loo," I say, a half-truth. "Could you…?"

He helps me up and nods repeatedly. "Er—yeah, sure, 'course. I don't know how you didn't find it already; it's right by the study… though in the opposite direction from the one you went."

"That would explain it," I say, faking a smile.

I'm caught between curiosity, shock, and disgust at the conversation I overheard, and my mind is still reeling when Potter brings it up, true to his word, while dropping me off at the bathroom. "Er, Red, before you—relieve yourself…" I just nod for him to continue, leaning against the wall. "I'm going out with the Marauders tomorrow night—I'm leaving at maybe eight, since I'm flying, and I'll probably be back a bit later… well, a lot later than I let on to my mum. Not that I thought you'd wait up or anything," he titters, "but I just thought you ought to know, since you're staying at my place and all. Just keep it to yourself, yeah?"

"Where are you going?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

Potter doesn't miss a beat. "Moony's."

I press further. "For what?" Potter doesn't answer, but something clicks: they'd said that Severus knows too much… "All right, does this have anything to do with Severus's theory about Lupin's lycanthropy?"

His knees give out; I smile weakly as he joins me against the wall. "I reckoned he would tell you," Potter says to himself, though he still looks shell-shocked. "So did he figure it out before or after the time when Padfoot tricked him into going in the Shrieking Shack after Moony transformed on the full moon?"

It's my turn to be rendered speechless. "He didn't tell you about that?" guesses Potter, looking mortified. I shake my head. "There's a curveball…"

At least this clears up part of the earlier conversation: Death Eaters would surely be interested in knowing the identity of a Dark creature—as well as that of the person who used a werewolf to threaten someone's life. The boys' involvement, though, is still a mystery. "This thing you're doing for Lupin…" I start, catching Potter's eye, "how dangerous is it?"

"I'll be fine," he says hastily.

"_How dangerous_, James?"

After a lengthy pause, he turns away. "Don't wait up tomorrow night, Evans."

I call after him when he makes to leave. "_Potter_—"

"Just use the bloody loo, Evans," Potter barks, spitting out my surname like an insult and turning out of sight.

I lock myself in the bathroom for far longer than it takes to "relieve myself," in his words. Only a few things are for certain: my reputation is apparently in shambles, my soon-to-be-uninvited date to Tuney's wedding is a werewolf, and I will most certainly be waiting up for Potter on Saturday night.

If I don't go to Lupin's myself first.

* * *

For the next day and a half, I can hardly contain my building worry and rage. Though Mr. Potter (a pleasant, balding man who shakes my hand and tells me to keep his son under control) tells her she's fabricating drama, Mrs. Potter is increasingly suspicious of the both of us: she tells me specifically at lunch on Saturday that I should come out of the study and socialize a little, and she even scolds Potter for "neglecting" his guest. "You ought to come find Lily more often, James," she tuts. "Don't you claim to be in love with her?"

"I _am_ in love with her, Mum," sighs Potter (I turn furiously scarlet). "Lily knows that. But it doesn't mean I have to be her keeper—you'd rather just read without me interrupting all the time, wouldn't you, Lily?"

I nod; Mr. Potter notices my coloring and promptly changes the subject.

Potter has the courtesy to at least tell me when he's leaving. "I'm off to Moony's, Red, I just let mum know," he says, poking his head in the doorway and turning to leave.

"Wait."

He lingers, looking cross. "Hurry up, Evans, they're counting on me."

"They're not even _expecting_ you; you think I wasn't eavesdropping before you found me looking for the bathroom yesterday?" Potter groans but doesn't make any accusations, for which I'm grateful. "What could you possibly do for Lupin that would help him and not temp him to kill you?"

Potter chews over his words before he answers, softly, "Human Transfiguration. The company calms him down, makes him less violent—werewolves are only a danger to humans."

I pause—I wasn't expecting his answer. "You could get expelled for doing that kind of magic outside of school, Potter. You're all _idiots_, of course—brilliant but stupid—but up at the castle it's one thing—"

"The Ministry doesn't know who performs the magic, just where," says Potter. "Bit unfair to Muggle-borns, if you ask me, since you won't get in trouble if your parents are wizards—we're not going to get caught, all right, so don't worry about us and just go to bed—"

"You're mental for dreaming that up," I insist. "_Human Transfiguration_…"

He shrugs. "I didn't dream it up. Wormtail's idea. He's a brilliant bloke; people never give him any credit…"

"I'm coming with you," I demand, changing tack.

Instantly, he turns white. "Lily, you _cannot_ come, you hear me? He's not used to your presence, he'll recognize you as human, it'll just make him worse. Look, I've been going with him for a year; trust me, all right?"

I huff but take his point; I don't want Potter to get himself killed, but I don't want to endanger myself for no reason, either, when he could be just fine. "I'm waiting up," I compromise.

"No, you're—"

"I'm waiting up, Potter," I say stiffly.

He recognizes something in my tone of voice. "You heard what they said about you, didn't they?" asks Potter gently, stepping into the study.

I set down the book and stand. "Severus is not a Death Eater," I contend as he comes closer. "And I am _not_ some kind of—"

"I know," he promises. He's reached me but remains a decimeter away, wary about touching me after last time. "They don't believe that, either, it's just that we can't take any chances for Moony. He didn't even want _us_ knowing; we figured it out on our own."

"Tell Lupin he's uninvited from the wedding." Potter nods, raking a hand through his hair. "I'm waiting up for you."

He doesn't protest, just guarantees, "I'll fly straight into my room when I'm back. Meet me there."

So I take a handful of books up to Potter's bedroom and change into a pair of his long pajamas (Mrs. Potter hasn't done the laundry since last night). They smell the same as Potter, as I've noticed when he gets too close—like fauna and grass stains and ink—and I bury my nose in the fabric and hope that Lupin won't do any severe damage to the three of them.

It's not so much that I care about Potter as that I would care about anyone's wellbeing, his included. If not for desperate measures, desperate times call at least for unexpected bursts of emotion. I'd always partly believed Severus when he called Lupin a werewolf, but I'd never expected his mates to get involved—it seemed natural, before now, that they would have some kind of sense of preservation.

I start to ponder what other secrets I don't know about in our year—the books, though interesting, aren't urgent enough to warrant my attention. And I don't mean how long Patil was seeing Catchlove before he left Davies; I mean real, honest-to-Merlin life-or-death things that can't get out. I'd never heard a word of doubt in my character before Friday, when Pettigrew and Lupin insinuated that Snape and I both practice Dark magic; though I'm shocked and offended by that shallow a view of me, I can't help but wonder what other social repercussions have resulted from our friendship. Hasn't anyone noticed that I detest his Slytherin mates, that I tone down his hatred of Gryffindors, that I've done nothing but breach house lines in an effort not to discriminate?

By the time I catch my eyelids drooping, it's nearly four in the morning. A quick glance out the window tells me that the moon is still out, and knowing Potter, he won't leave until Lupin transforms again. Add that to the flight from Wales to Cornwall, and it'll be eight o'clock in the morning by the time he's back.

I'm kicking myself at this point—how could I not have noticed the Marauders' involvement? All last year, they've missed class on the first day of Lupin's prolonged monthly absences, but Severus explained that as visiting Lupin in the Hospital Wing all day. I expect that they _do_ spend the day with him, to stop the teachers from getting suspicious—but they likely spend more time sleeping at his bedside than keeping him company, having been up all night with him themselves. It's a huge commitment to Lupin, I realize as I stare emptily out the window; that they would risk so much for him: they may be idiots, but they're certainly loyal idiots.

But it occurs to me soon after that they're not loyal enough to protect him—at least, Black isn't. Using Lupin to endanger Snape's life… a burning fury with Black, coupled with sharp sympathy for Lupin, fills me, and I moan and fling myself back on Potter's pillows. _Why_ did they have to get involved?

My thoughts are interrupted by a disturbance at the window—Potter, several hours early and barely upright on his broom. Panicked, I hurry to unlock the window and help him inside; he collapses in a heap on his bed, and even without a light on I notice the gashes.

"_Merlin_, Potter, what did Lupin do to you?" I whisper, fishing in the pocket of his torn robe for his wand—I've left mine behind in the study, and his wounds haven't been given any attention for hours now.

"Not Moony," Potter corrects me, surprisingly lucid as he struggles to sit up. "Padfoot. There was a fight…"

I tug out his wand and start easing him out of his robes, ignoring the heat in my face and focusing on the cuts running along his arms and torso. "You're lucky your face didn't get hit; you don't want your mum noticing this," I say softly, then add, "Over _what_, pray tell?"

"He was angry that I told you so much," admits Potter, lying back down. I use his robes to sponge off the blood before clumsily checking the biggest wound—a long gash across his abdomen—for internal bleeding with a simple spell. Thankfully, I find none. "Wormtail or Moony would've tried to stop him, but Moony's human mind is basically unconscious when he transforms, and Wormtail was too small to defend me—he Transfigures into a rat. We, er, keep the same forms every time so we're familiar to Moony," he adds, sucking in breath as I close the wound and test his skin with my hands. "Where'd you learn how to do this, anyway?"

"Oh, I wanted to be a Healer for a while," I say simply, moving on to the smaller (though still serious) cuts. "I'd stay in the Hospital Wing for a few hours a day on weekends and help out Madam Pomfrey—you learn things on the job. Look, Potter, I'm not worth fighting for."

"You are, though," Potter counters. "You're brilliant at this, you know. It would get rough a lot for the first few months with Moony, and we didn't do nearly as good of a job patching each other up after. It drained all our energy just to do the bigger scrapes, and so we'd leave most of them… and we'd close the skin unevenly, or leave scars… and we never had time to do it thoroughly, that late in the morning." His eyes are starting to brighten, which I take as a good sign.

Glancing over his chest, I indeed notice a pattern of thick scars, many of which look uneven. "I wouldn't call some of these _scrapes_, Potter… do you still have pain in these? Discomfort?" The largest wounds are all closed, so I move on to a cursory fix of the minor injuries.

Potter shrugs, then winces from the gesture. "Discomfort, usually, and occasional twinges…"

"I can fix those when I'm done, if you'd like, but I'll have to reopen them. It'll be painless, but after tonight, I don't know if your body can take the trauma…" I consider.

"There's always tomorrow," he reminds me. "You don't have to finish today; the Ministry will get suspicious about why my mum might be Healing someone at five in the morning…"

"Next time this happens," I say darkly—because we both know that there will be a next time—as I close the last open wound, "you come to me. All three of you. I'll spend full moons in the common room when school starts up."

He shakes his head, but already he's started to doze off. "Oh, Red, don't waste your energy on us," he argues groggily, but his head is drooping to the side, his glasses sliding down his nose. He turns his head suddenly to look at me, though, just before he nods off, and comments, "Are those my pajamas?"

I shake my head, laughing, then set his glasses on his bedside table and tuck him under the covers. Stashing his robes in a corner of his half-unpacked trunk, I take one last look at Potter before leaving him to his slumber.


	7. July 11th

**July 11th**

I wake up extra-early on Sunday morning to find Potter before his mother finds the bloody robes in his trunk. I intend just to cast a quick _Scourgify_ and leave, but something in the way he snores gives me pause. "Potter," I say gently, nudging his shoulder. He rolls over and stretches blearily, fumbling for his glasses. "How are you feeling?"

"Decent," he replies. I give him a long, searching look, then go to his trunk and start to unroll his robes.

"No pain? No soreness?" I press, holding the robes up for him to see. "Because judging by the looks of these stains, it's worse than you're letting on."

Potter bites his lip, conflicted. "Maybe a little pain," he admits, wincing as he sits up—by which he means that, yes, it aches.

I tut softly—I'd hoped to finish mending him now, but to no avail. "I don't know if you've recovered enough for me to perform any _more_ magic on you," I say of the poorly healed cuts I'd meant to fix. "I'd do it when I see you this weekend, but it's a Muggle area, it's not safe…"

"This weekend?" He looks bewildered, even for this hour.

"Well, you didn't think I was going to go to Tuney's wedding _alone_, did you?" It takes Potter a minute to process this (during which I clean the robes and tuck them neatly back into the trunk), but when he does, he beams.

The idea seems to give him enough energy to sit up properly, the covers falling around him. He glances down, then back at me mischievously. "You changed my clothes? You _undressed_ me?"

"I wasn't just going to let you sleep in soiled robes, was I? What if your mother found you before I did?" I argue, pushing him back down. "Go back to bed, Potter, you'll need to get your rest now so you can say goodbye properly in a few hours."

"Why'd you wake me up _now_, then?" mutters Potter, but he reluctantly complies, following me with his eyes. "Wait—don't go yet."

Sighing, I sit on the bed with him, slumping my shoulders. "You're quite the handful, Potter."

"Same to you, Red," he says, ruffling his hair. It doesn't quite have the intended effect, as he smarts with the effort to raise his arm. "So tell me about this wedding—you said it's for your sister, Petunia?"

I glare at him but soften when something in his eyes tells me he needs this. "Tuney, yeah. And her whale of a fiancée, Vernon Dursley… you'll love him, I imagine, he can't stand magic…"

In the next six hours, I take a short nap, clean out my guestroom, say goodbye to the Potters (Mrs. Potter kisses my cheek and makes me promise to write), and return to the McKinnons' house to find Marlene fiery at my arrival. "You decided to stay the weekend with the bloke and didn't even _tell_ me first?" she demands, hands on her hips, the moment I step out of the fireplace.

"I Flooed in to tell you! Do you have _any_ idea how uncomfortable it is to only send your head over?" I say, marching down the hall to our shared room. She tails me, wagging a finger.

"Yeah, _after you'd agreed_," Marlene points out. "Some mate you are, staying the weekend with your love interest and not telling me…"

I throw my knapsack at her. She dodges it, shrieking. "Potter's not my love interest."

"Like hell he isn't," she says but doesn't further pursue this line of questioning. Instead, she asks, "So how was it? Did you bond?"

I shake my head, not wanting to mention the drama. "I read; he popped in occasionally. I saw Pettigrew and Lupin on Friday—I think he had the other Marauders over for a while. Anything interesting happen while I was gone?" I add.

"O.W.L. results. I'll get yours…" says Marlene offhand, meandering into the kitchen (I take the opportunity to retrieve my knapsack and start unpacking what little I'd brought to Potter's). Following a series of sifting noises, she emerges—my stomach promptly clenches up. "It says they'll send out booklists in August for the classes we qualify for, and then we can buy books for whichever ones we want to continue in. Here—" and she hands me an envelope bearing an unbroken Hogwarts crest.

I toss aside the empty knapsack and open the envelope, my hands trembling. "Did Herbology go all right for you?" I ask to divert her attention, unfolding the letter.

"Yes!" she says, delighted. "An A. I got an E in Astronomy and an A in Care of Magical Creatures, but I don't need to continue with those—Ps in Arithmancy and History of Magic, but that's to be expected—"

Relief washes over me as I skim through the results. "I got an E in McGonagall's; I can take N.E.W.T.-level Transfiguration!"

"Me, too—that's marvelous, Lily!" says Marlene, knowing of my difficulties with the subject. "Os in Potions and Charms, right?"

"And in History of Magic and Defense Against the Dark Arts," I confirm. I've surprised myself with this one—I hadn't thought myself much of a dueler before the exam. "Any for you?"

She nods. "Defense also, and Muggle Studies—but I'm dropping that, too; I've learned enough to get by with Muggles when I need to. What are you taking? I'm doing Defense, Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, and Herbology—just the five I'll need for Auror training."

"Seven. I'm dropping Divination, Astronomy, and Herbology—sorry," I add, knowing how much she hates the latter of the three. "So I'm taking Potions, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, History of Magic—the Os—"

"I can't believe you got an O in History… how can you _learn_ in that class with Binns teaching?" she cuts in.

"I want to go into law, remember? I've got to stay on top of my wizarding knowledge, especially internationally," I remind her. "And then Tranfiguration, Arithmancy, and Ancient Runes—all Es."

Marlene rolls her eyes melodramatically. "Did you even flunk _one_ exam? Get a single A? Figures…" she concludes following my pause.

"Hey—I took _Divination_, remember? I got an A in that," I say defensively. "It's not like you should be _proud_ that you failed two subjects…"

"Oh, shut it," says Marlene. "I sent out owls to the girls—Mare bombed literally _half_ hers, and Em's only O was in Divination, which goes without saying, really."

I raise my eyebrows. "Mary did poorly? What's she taking next year?"

"Arithmancy, Defense, Herbology, and Care of Magical Creatures," replies Marlene promptly. "The last two were obvious—she's going to be a wizarding naturalist, she said—but I'm shocked she got an A in Arithmancy, she mostly just copies my work in it."

I don't comment on their lack of ethics. "So all of us are taking Defense Against the Dark Arts, then," I presume, and Marlene nods. It's a difficult subject—Mary in particular is wretched at it—but in these times, it's scarier not to learn to defend oneself than to risk failing a N.E.W.T. "When will we get our books, then? I know we were all going to go shopping together…"

She shrugs. "Like I said, booklists don't come out until August, so we have a while to wait still. I was thinking of getting us all together at my place this weekend, though—"

"Can't; that's the wedding," I decline. "Potter and I will both be gone—we're leaving for my house on Thursday."

"J? I thought…" Marlene trails off, batting her overlong bangs out of her eyes.

I recall, suddenly, that everyone thinks I'm going with Lupin. "Remus couldn't make it in the end—I think the mental image of Vernon might have scared him off—Potter was the obvious second choice," I say hastily.

There's something funny about the way Marlene's smiling at me, but I let it go for now. "He'll be staying at your place the whole weekend?"

"Yeah. The wedding's on Sunday, but we have to help prepare first—obligatory family responsibilities, you know, even though I'm not formally invited… well, Mum _says_ I am, but Tuney wouldn't send out an invitation, anyway." I lob the O.W.L. results onto a nightstand and collapse on my cot, stretching. "I should call Dad to let him know I'm bringing a guest; he and Mum are convinced I'm going to make up with Severus and invite him, I reckon…"

"You do that," agrees Marlene fervently. "Phone's in the kitchen."

"I know—your mum bought it for me, remember?"

She rolls her eyes as I stretch and get up. "Smart aleck. Honestly, four Outstanding O.W.L.s…"

* * *

Thursday is coming sooner than I would like, not because I'm dreading seeing Potter again but because I know I won't be coming back to the McKinnons' after Tuney's wedding. Neither I nor Marlene bring it up to the other, but she doesn't raise questions when she finds me packing my trunk, and I refrain from commenting that the Gryffindor gathering she puts together on Wednesday feels an awful lot like a going-away party. I appreciate the (unvoiced) sentiment, but it's still fairly awkward, especially between me and the Marauders: Pettigrew tries—unsuccessfully—to get Potter to avoid me, Black glares when he thinks I'm not looking, and Lupin… Lupin won't meet my eyes, not that I'm keen on talking to him myself.

I keep close by Potter and Marlene, for the most part. It's funny how they've come to be my closest friends this past month, not that "closest" says much these days; I wouldn't have pegged them as my type. Indeed, I've gotten to know them more because of proximity than anything, not that a lack thereof would have stopped Potter. Spending so much time with Marlene, though, makes me realize how far from the other Gryffindors I drifted by befriending Severus—I didn't know she lives in Scotland, I didn't notice her relationship with Black that seems so obvious now, I didn't even know that she has a stepfather…

The morning of my departure, I Floo to Potter's after my fix of Common Welsh Greens cereal and a quick, painless goodbye from the McKinnons and Marlene, who makes me promise to write weekly and come see her after the wedding. Helene's Manor is no less impressive than the last time I stayed there, but to my surprise and good fortune, I come out at the living room fireplace this time, where Mrs. Potter is waiting to Side-Along-Apparate me to my house (which, of course, is not connected to the Floo Network). "I'm so glad you're taking James with you," she tells me, pulling me into an embrace despite not knowing me well. "He's been so looking forward to this all week—talks about it nonstop—"

To my great surprise, Potter blushes. "Can we go, Mum?" he asks impatiently, heaving his trunk across the room towards us. "I don't want to keep the Evanses waiting long."

"Yes, of course, dear," says his mother unhurriedly. "If you'll both just grab my arm and keep a tight hold on your trunks…"

After a painful sensation of compression, we appear in my kitchen: Apparating outside would have been too suspicious, given my Muggle neighbors. It's a small house—just one story high, with three bedrooms and only one bathroom—but Potter doesn't seem to mind, remarking in my ear, "Cozy place you have, Red." I roll my eyes but thank him nonetheless: he tends to seem insufferable, but he means well, I know that now.

Only a few seconds after the incoming _crack_, Mum rushes in to greet us; her white-blonde hair is even lighter with fresh highlights for the occasion, I notice immediately. "Dorea! How lovely to see you again—it was such a joy meeting you the other day." Just as I'm turning to ask Potter about this, he explains under his breath: his mum flew to my house a few days ago so that she'd be familiar enough with the premises to Apparate here. "And you must be James? A pleasure to meet you as well—I've heard such wonderful things about you."

"It's good to meet you, too, Mrs. Evans," Potter says, stifling a laugh—we both know that Mum certainly has not heard wonderful things about him, at least not from me. "You must be proud of Lily—she's a brilliant witch."

"Lily?" Mum turns a critical eye on me, surveying with evident displeasure my oily face, tangled hair, and slouched shoulders. "Yes, absolutely—a witch in the family, think of it—though it doesn't do for her to let herself go like this…"

There's a brief, uncomfortable pause as I stare Mum down, as though daring her to find fault in my disregard for posture or cosmetics. Finally, Potter breaches the silence, his face reddening again, presumably this time with anger: "Not that it's any of my business, but if you tilt your head a little to the left and squint—" ("_James_," Mrs. Potter reprimands him sharply) "—if you ask _me_, I think she's beautiful."

I flush scarlet but stiffly maintain my glare. Mum's delight at meeting Potter dissolves somewhat, and she rounds on him next, saying, "Yes, well, good though your intentions may be, you lack the feminine view necessary to understand this. It's no matter to _you_ that my daughter hasn't been able to find a proper suitor with her complexion—"

"Right, because you had such good judgment pushing Snivellus on her all these years," says Potter hotly.

Sensing the escalating tensions, Mrs. Potter interrupts, "Well, I'd best be off, dears, can't have the hospital waiting on me. I'll come pick you up on Monday morning, all right, James?" Mum deflates while she kisses Potter's cheek and hugs me in parting; by the time it's just the three of us, the impending row looks to have been averted.

"Well, don't just stand there gawking at each other, you two," says Mum, flustered (though it's just me gawking at Potter, who's intent on evil-eyeing Mum herself). "Petunia! Pet, honey, come in here and greet your sister and her guest!"

I cringe as Tuney reluctantly sidles into the kitchen. For a blushing bride-to-be, she looks miserable—her horse-like face is contorted into a grimace, and she spares no words for me, offering Potter only a simple, "Nice to meet you." Mum knows not to push it—the last thing she appears to need is for Potter to start attacking Tuney, too, for criticizing magic.

"All right, all right, enough of that," decides Mum, much to my relief. "Petunia and I have to get to a bridesmaids dress fitting, so I suppose the two of you should pick out formalwear for the big day… your dad can take you when he's ready, Lily, he's in the shower at the moment. Be home by five for dinner, you hear?" Before I have a chance to speak for either of us, she's left the kitchen, Tuney right on her tail, clipping her hair up and off her neck and whispering something in my sister's ear.

I just nod and pull Potter out into the hall. "My room's this way," I say, inclining my head.

"Is she always like that?" he asks hoarsely, following me down a narrow hall. I nudge open the first door on the left with my toes; it swings open to reveal my bedroom, wallpapered Gryffindor maroon and gold. "Love the color scheme, by the way."

"Who, Tuney? No, she's usually a lot crabbier, actually," I say lightly, pulling out my desk chair for him. "And thanks—my parents decorated it for me after I was Sorted, as a coming-home surprise at Christmas," I add of his latter remark.

Potter shakes his head, scratching his head and sitting down. "Your mum. She's so… so…" He grasps silently for words, then gives up and gapes at me, open-mouthed.

"Oh, _Mum_? Usually she's like that, yes," I confirm, launching myself onto my bed. "Tuney gets her tastes from her—not that she's quite so, er, _high-strung_ about anything. She's more of a sulker, you know."

"Please tell me you take after your father," says Potter stubbornly, crossing his arms. "You deserve at least _one_ decent relative."

I laugh nervously. "I guess you could say I take after Dad. My family's all right, though—my cousins are brilliant, you'll see why in a few days."

"On your dad's side?" he assumes.

"On _both_ sides," I laugh, tucking my hair behind my ear.

There's a bit of a pause as Potter looks around, taking in the plush carpet, the crack in my window, and looks like he's on the verge of saying something dangerous. Eventually, he says in a rush, "Wouldn't Snape have a problem with this place?"

I reply quickly, "He's never been in my bedroom, actually—we used to hang out in my backyard, or sometimes the kitchen. I didn't go to his house much; his parents fight." He seems to accept this, and there's another long silence. "Thanks for what you said back there," I stammer, for Potter looks like he's run out of words.

He doesn't answer—just looks at me pensively for a long moment, inches his chair forward, and rests his hand on my cheek. I shiver involuntarily but don't recoil; Potter smiles and closes his eyes. "You're welcome," he says finally, pulling back his hand—but he stays with his chair legs touching my bed, resting his arms on the duvet so that he's level with me. After a moment, he brushes my hair behind my ear and asks softly, "How are you?"

"I'm all right," I say, unsure of where this is headed. "And you?"

"I—"

A sharp knock at the door cuts Potter off, and we both straighten up, as if afraid to be caught so close together. "Come in," I invite, drawing my knees up to my chest.

The door creaks as Dad pushes it open. He's tall and balding, but there's a youthful spark that hasn't quite left his blue-grey eyes. "C'mon, Lil, your mother's going to go into conniptions if she comes home to find that you haven't left to pick out a dress yet. So you're James, then?"

"James Potter. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Evans," says Potter promptly, rising and extending a hand. Dad shakes it, looking satisfied. "I would have brought a tux, but wizards wear dress robes, not suits…"

"Don't worry about it," says Dad airily. "Even if you brought one, Rosie probably wouldn't have approved of it… she's a certain sort, Rose, she really is." He grins and beckons us out of my room. "Ready to go?"

Potter waits, glancing between us. "I look passable?"

Dad doesn't know what to say to this, but I glance over his appropriately Muggle clothing—a basic red T-shirt and jeans. "You're perfect," I assure him, and I catch the beam that spreads over his face before we leave.

Potter and Dad get along surprisingly well, not that I appreciate their combined teasing as I try on dress after dress. Dad is content just to laugh and tell me I look ridiculous, but Potter is unafraid to hide his affections in front of my father, constantly commenting on my "radiant beauty" and even deigning to stoop and kiss my hand once (at which point I flinch and call him an arrogant toerag—I'd forgotten how much I enjoy using that particular insult on him).

Eventually, I settle on a simple emerald dress and black heels—plain but comfortable, just as I like it. Dad warns me that Mum won't be happy with my choice when she sees me on Sunday, but Potter disagrees, murmuring in my ear before I can slip back into the fitting rooms, "You look lovely, Red." I blush and thank him, just catching my breath for a moment when I retreat behind the changing room door—pesky though he may be, I'm still not used to all the compliments.

Somehow, it takes even longer for Potter to pick out a tuxedo. I hadn't expected him to be so selective—with every suit, it seems, he takes offense at the exact shade of the collar or length of the cuffs. When he's finally settled on a solid black number, he vanishes into the tie racks with Dad, still debating whether pinstripes should be legal (Potter claims not, while Dad intends to wear them to the wedding); I shake my head at their retreating figures and get in line at the checkout.

After what feels like forever, we pay—Dad reluctantly allows Potter to pay for both our outfits, much to my chagrin. The drive back is equally painful for me as Potter bonds with my father, and by the time I get out of the car, Dad's muttering in my ear, "Why haven't you ever brought _him_ home before?"

"It's complicated," I say with finality, heaving my purchases into my arms and kicking the door shut behind me. And indeed it is—hadn't I on-and-off hated him just over a month ago?

The rest of the day isn't nearly as strained as I had feared. Though Potter and Mum are at underlying odds and Tuney wants nothing to do with either of us wizards, Dad's able to smooth over the tensions, peacemaker that he is. It only gets uncomfortable when nighttime comes: there isn't a spare bedroom, and Potter hadn't brought a sleeping bag.

"Lily, give James your room," instructs Mum, and there's a purse to her lips that shows she won't take no for an answer.

Potter gives me a quick glance and then tells Mum, "That's really not necessary, Mrs. Evans, I'll just sleep on the couch—"

"You're a guest in our home, James, and I won't have you sleeping in the living room like a schoolgirl friend of Petunia's," says Mum firmly. "Lily, get your pajamas so James can go to bed, and for God's sake, take a bath, you look like you haven't showered in days."

"Right, because she'd rather look unnaturally polished and proper—" Potter starts sullenly.

"And what right do _you_ have to tell me how to raise my daughter?" Mum rounds on him. At the late hour, she's more disheveled than normal: her mussed hair has half fallen out of the clip, and worry lines are visible beneath her smudged powder. "All day, I have done nothing but accommodate you—"

Dad rests a hand on Mum's shoulder. "Calm down, Rosie, he doesn't mean any harm," he murmurs, but neither Mum nor Potter is having any of it.

"Actually, you've done nothing but make backhanded remarks about how much you disapprove of your daughter," he says with conviction, "and you take advantage of her tolerance of it to abuse her even further. Just because she's not a carbon-copy of Petunia—"

"You leave Pet out of this!" Mum demands, her hands on her hips. "_I_ am Lily's mother, and it would certainly do her some good to take my advice every once in a while. Walking around looking positively uncivilized, her nose always in a book, never bringing anyone around but Severus—it wouldn't kill her to be _ladylike_ every once in a while."

Tuney turns up her nose and tugs lightly on Mum's elbow. "Don't bother, Mum. She's a freak, not a lady—"

"You say that now," snaps Potter, "but she has more class than either of you could _ever_ dream of. You talk about Lily like she's wasting her potential, probably because I doubt she's ever been able to confide in you about how hard her life is—you try being alienated by all your roommates because they don't like your best friend, or being the brightest witch in your year and still not making prefect because you're not goody-two-shoes enough, or having to walk through the hallways and being sworn at for your parentage every time you turn a corner—"

My face fast reddening, I interrupt: "That's enough for one night." Potter takes a deep breath and doesn't stop fuming, but he heeds my warning and says nothing more. Mum looks dangerously indignant and stalks off with Tuney; Dad just blinks at the both of us, then sighs and runs off to find Mum and mollify her. Sighing heavily, I guide Potter into my bedroom by the arm, murmuring, "In here."

He looks ready to burst. "How do you _live_ like this?" he says outright, slouching against my closed door. "How do you take the criticism _every day_…?"

I'm tempted to ask why he cares, but I know better than to question my only friend in the house (Dad, considering that he married Mum, is neutral territory). "It's all right. I usually stay at Hogwarts for the holidays, so it's just in the summer when I see them, and I have—_had_—Severus then."

"It's like you don't even realize how bad you have it," sulks Potter, slumping to the floor in a worn, defeated manner. I join him, our shoulders brushing. "I almost can't blame you for having liked him so much; the alternative isn't much better, if you'd just take a listen around the rumor mill every so often…"

"I gathered," I say darkly, referring to Lupin and Pettigrew's stunt back at the Manor. "Look, Potter—I don't want to be a martyr."

He faces me, squinting in the light of the waning moon. "When did I ever martyr you?"

I prop my arms up on my knees. "Well—not a _martyr_, exactly. You just put me on this pedestal like I'm Hester Prynne or something…"

His eyebrows crease in confusion. "Hester Prynne?"

"I forget; you haven't read the Muggle classics." I chuckle softly, tracing idle designs on my jeans. "You asked how I take it—it's by not fixating on it. And I appreciate the support around here, I _really_ do—" Potter perks up and grins at me for this "—but I don't need pity, and I don't want you fighting any battles for me."

"If you won't, someone ought to," he protests meekly, but he lets it go as I shake my head and smile.

I get up, crossing to my trunk. "If you'll excuse me, I have a shower to take," I say cheerfully, grabbing a pair of pajamas and a towel, "unless you want something else to fight my mum on." He laughs heartily and stands to let me pass through the doorway, but before I open it to leave, I add, "Potter—thank you."

"Any time, Red," Potter vows, smiling. There's a fresh spring in my step as I walk down the hall to the bathroom, and not even passing a bitter-looking Tuney on the way down dampens it.

The next few days pass without much event. Tuney's fiancée, Vernon, pops in and out—never staying for longer than an hour, much to my relief; there's enough animosity in the house between Potter, Mum, and Tuney without adding Vernon's hatred of magic into the mix. Though Potter is regularly on the verge of an outburst with Mum, he keeps his defiance in check—only because I've made it clear that I don't want any fighting on my behalf, I'm sure. Dad alone is as easygoing as always, cracking jokes and keeping the mood light: without his peacemaking, Mum and Potter would indisputably come to a head sooner or later.

Somehow, though, they don't, and they're somehow still on speaking terms by Saturday evening. "We'd best be off to the dress rehearsal," says Mum, stretching, after lunch. "We're going out with the bridesmaids' families after, Lily, so we'll be a few hours… Pet, you're leaving for your bachelorette party right after?"

Tuney nods, folding her hands in her lap. "Linda says that everything's settled—we're all going to drive in her car."

"All right," says Mum placidly. "Behave yourself, Lily." Potter bristles but says nothing.

"That goes for you, too, James," says Dad cheerfully.

I blush, but Potter just grins. "Of course, Mr. Evans. Good luck," he pleasantly wishes Tuney, and she nods, mumbling thanks—it may be the most polite interaction I've seen between the pair in the past three days.

They leave within the next few minutes—Mum rounds up Dad and Tuney on the way out much like a teacher gathers her preschoolers before crossing a busy street—leaving me fully alone with Potter for the first time since the full moon. It takes us a minute to get used to the freedom of it—then Potter is quick to break the ice. "All Outstanding marks on your O.W.L.s, then, Red?"

I give an ironic little laugh. "Only four out of ten, sorry to say."

Potter raises an eyebrow. "And they call you a nerd…"

I sink into my seat, sighing. "How do you _do_ that?" I say with exasperation, shutting my eyes tight.

"Do what?" he replies, smiling innocently at me when I glance at him again.

I wave a hand vaguely in his direction. "Poke fun at me for living out of the library and stressing about Acceptable marks, but still make me feel like I'm normal when I'm around you."

He chooses not to comment on my sudden depth, instead responding, "I'm glad I make you feel normal." I laugh again, feeling suddenly amiable, and get up. "Where are you going?"

"You think I'm going to trip all over your feet dancing at the reception tomorrow because I'm not used to wearing high heels?" I ignore Potter's surprised expression and pull him to his feet. "Come on, get up, get changed—where did you leave the dress shoes you brought with you?…"

Ten minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom, dress and all, to meet him—he's clicking his heels and ruffling his hair, seemingly with impatience or anxiety, and it hits me right then that maybe his preoccupation with his hair doesn't stem from arrogance. "Took you long enough," he mumbles, looking me over—I realize self-consciously that the dress is a bit form fitting, compared to my robes or usual Muggle apparel. "You're pretty."

"Thanks… er…" I glance at his crisp new tuxedo and improperly knotted tie, then meet his eyes. "You look nice yourself," I tell him, and for once, I mean this.

"No," Potter says, surprising me, "you don't _look_ pretty—well, you do look pretty, but—I meant that you _are_ pretty. Every day. Whether or not your mum thinks you've let yourself go." He wears a genuine smile and extending a hand. "Care to dance?"

I don't know what to say to this—_any_ of this—so I just nod and take his hand, letting him pull me down the hall and into the living room. He's pushed all the furniture against the walls, I realize, leaving a sizeable space in the center of the floor; the lights are off and the shades pulled, shrouding the room in evening light, even though it's barely two o'clock.

It's nothing like our fast dances at the concert. We practice at first—me tripping in my shoes and nearly knocking us both over at first before we finally find a rhythm—but then slip out of formality, my arms both around his neck, his voice low in my ear. "I knew you could dance, Red, but you scared me for a while back there—I didn't think you could pull it off in heels."

"People surprise you every day," I say generically, revolving on the spot. "For one, I didn't think you had it in you to be a decent human being until recently."

"Proved you wrong on that one, didn't I?" chuckles Potter. He squeezes my middle for a moment in something like a hug, then loosens his grip. "I'm glad I've proven my humanity to you, in any case."

I can't say I'm surprised when he leans in and kisses my cheek, but I still chide lightly, "Don't push your luck, Potter."

His laughter follows me into the kitchen as the telephone starts to ring. Idly wondering whether Marlene will ever be willing to use hers, I answer it with a cheerful, "Hello?"

Something shifts in my mind when I hear the words that follow, and I stand there alone long after the conversation is over. A piece of me notices Potter step in, set the phone I dropped back in its cradle, and gently ask what's happened.

"Car crash," I say, my throat dry. "Tuney was with the bridesmaids, thank God… They said it was painless, for both of them."

Potter freezes midway through rumpling his hair—it would have looked comical just a few minutes ago. "Lily, I'm—"

Saving him the trouble of articulating an apology, I bury my face in his just-bought suit jacket and sob.

* * *

**END OF PART ONE**


	8. September 1st: Mary Macdonald

**September 1****st****: Mary Macdonald**

I step onto the platform with two trunks in hand and a mission in mind—at least, I have a mission in mind until my thoughts are diverted to the drop of one of my trunks on my foot. One of my _very heavy_ trunks, might I add.

Yelping, I yank myself out from under the trunk and hobble around for a minute with my knee drawn up to my chest, howling like a loon and attracting appropriate stares from passersby (only the nearby McKinnon family gives me friendly looks, though I notice that Marlene isn't with them). _Great, Mary,_ I think, _what a perfect way to start off the new school year—once again, you've managed to stand out as the class idiot before even stepping foot on the train._

Let me say now that, whatever else you hear, I am not a bumbling, shallow busybody. All right, I suppose that's a bit unfair: I'm something of a busybody, yes, but I'm only a _touch_ shallow—oh, who am I kidding? Just because I find gossip interesting doesn't mean that's _all_ I amount to! Whatever happened to freedom of expression, anyway? I thought it was possible to not be judged by your lesser qualities in this day and age!

_Then again,_ my conscience tells me, _you judge people by their lesser qualities all the time._

Curse you, bloody conscience. Oh, I promise I'm not that vulgar when I talk—why else do you think I say "like" so much? For fun? Because I _enjoy_ looking illiterate? It started with me covering up my language and morphed into an uncontrollable habit—anyway, I promise my mouth is clean, mostly. If I could, I'd also promise that I come across better when you get to know me, but alas, no such luck.

Merlin, I'm touchy today. And all because I dropped my trunk on my foot…

Which reminds me: two trunks and a mission. Right. I go back to thinking about my goal for the day—finding out more about the Lily Evans scandal—as I somehow lug my trunks across the platform, praying to quickly find a compartment where I can stuff these and be rid of them for the next few hours. I only feel a little guilty for my curiosity; in my defense, Lily never even hung around anyone but that horrid Snape boy until last June, and anyway, as her newly appointed mate, I care about her enough to want to know the full story—I just don't know her well enough to get it from her. Honestly, is that so bad?

Oh, and I also want an update on the Paul Patil drama, but that'll be easy enough; I'm mates with Veronica Smethley, and she and Greta are basically attached at the hip, so if I somehow don't end up in Paul's compartment, I'll at least get the story from Ver. And if today turns out to be a good day, I'll talk to Reg again—or at least find out from one of his mates whether he thinks it's too soon to kiss on the fourth date, which with any luck will happen the next time we go to Hogsmeade.

That settles it, I decide, heaving my trunks onto the train: I'm _definitely_ sitting with the Hufflepuffs today. Or at least in Ver's compartment.

To my great fortune, the first fellow sixth year I run into is Amos Diggory. "Amos!" I exclaim, dragging my trunks and myself forward to embrace him in a hasty half-hug. "I haven't heard from you in, like, _ages_! How was your summer?"

"Fine, fine," says Amos, looking nervous—I don't think the poor boy ever fully recovered from our breakup last November. He seems to forget that it was _he_ who dumped _me_, not the other way around—and besides, it's not like it was serious or anything. For crying out loud, I only dated the bloke for three weeks. "I spent most of it on holiday along the Mediterranean," he tells me next, and I realize that he does look rather tan, compared to when I last saw him in June; his hair is streaked with blonde, too, likely from the sun.

Thinking of which, I really should have gotten my roots done before leaving for Hogwarts. It's so much cheaper to do it the Muggle way, and I'm running low on Sleekeazy's…

"Good, good," I say quickly, hoping he doesn't think I'm being rude. "Do you know whether Ver's here yet? I wanted to catch up with her…"

Amos brightens at my mention of her; I reckon he feels awkward, it being just the two of us. Should've thought about that before you broke up with me, shouldn't you have, Diggory? "You know, Mary, I was just taking my things to her compartment—we're sitting with Greta, Paul, and Reg. Would you care to join us?"

My exasperation with him fades. Merlin must be looking upon me favorably today. "I would _love_ to join you, Amos," I say genuinely, sweeping my hair out of my eyes (and worrying a bit about the noticeably dark roots of said hair). "Which compartment are you all in?"

Thankfully for my throbbing foot, my target compartment is just a few down from our current one. I pass through Lene's on the walk down; she's sitting with the Marauders (sans Remus, who must be with the prefects already) and invites me to sit with them, but I decline, mouthing _CATTERMOLE_ at her and tilting my head in Amos's direction. Cottoning on, Lene nods and mouths back her approval; James and Sirius don't even notice, but I spot Peter blinking in confusion before I walk out and shut the compartment door behind me. Laughing it off, I almost don't realize that Lily hadn't been with them—and as Alice is keen on reminding the lot of us, Lily's not a prefect.

This could be interesting.

A chorus of "hellos" greets me in Amos's compartment, and I give a general wave to them all before straining to put away my trunks. "Hey, everyone," I say, grunting with the effort. "How have you all been?"

As expected, everyone starts chattering away at once—Amos about Italy, Greta and Paul about each other, Ver about her widely publicized infatuation with Gilderoy Lockhart. It's so much to follow (I'm trying to focus on Greta and Paul without giving the impression of snubbing Amos or Ver, but probably not succeeding in the latter) that I don't notice Reg's silence until he comes up behind me and murmurs, "Let me help you with those."

I laugh and thank him, watching his biceps with mild interests as he lifts up the trunks. "Really, Mary, was it _necessary_ to bring two trunks to Hogwarts?" Reg asks wearily. "Doesn't just the one suffice?"

"Where else was I supposed to store my cosmetics?" I simper, my eyes wide and pleading. Reg shakes his head, failing to conceal a blush, and I grin—it's good to know I have noticeable effects on him.

Like I said, though, I am on a mission that I intend to fulfill in good time. I cut to the chase, once the pandemonium dies down. "So, like, what have you guys heard about the whole Lily Evans business?"

"Merlin, Mary, you don't mess around, do you?" teases Greta; her laughter, as always, reminds me of tinkling china. "And wouldn't you know more than us about her? You've actually _seen_ her all summer."

"Only _before_ her parents died!" I say defensively. "She disappeared off the face of the wizarding world _after_—"

Paul rolls his eyes. "Careful how you phrase it, Mary, you don't want to sound callous."

I cross my arms and glare. "Frankly, Paul, I don't give a damn whether you think I'm callous. What about, like, freedom of expression?"

"It's not exactly constitutionally guaranteed, you know," says Greta, her voice wavering—we're friends, but she still wants to defend her new boyfriend. I can relate to that, not that I want my newfound appreciation of freedom of expression threatened or anything.

"Greta, honey, the Constitution is unwritten. Were you to take it up in the courts, the jury wouldn't have the judicial review to decide it, either."

She smacks him playfully. "Do you have to be such a _Ravenclaw_ all the time, Paul?"

"C'mon, focus, Lily Evans," I redirect them impatiently, tapping my foot. I like Greta and all, but honest to Merlin, I liked both of them a hell of a lot better when Paul was with Davies. "Any ideas?"

"Wasn't it the day of her sister's wedding?" inquires Amos, sparking the rumor exchange. "I heard there was a Death Eater attack during the reception."

Paul rolls his eyes again, this time at Amos. "Don't be daft, Diggory, it would've made the papers if there had been an attack—I heard it was a car crash on the drive back after."

"Sucks to be her sister," sniggers Ver. "Can you imagine? Finding out about your parents' death while your new husband is deflowering you?"

I chortle appreciatively but correct them: "The car crash was on the way home after the rehearsal, not, like, the wedding itself. But what about after? Where was she _staying_, for one thing?"

"James Potter's, of course," says Greta immediately. "His parents took her in."

"No, that's Sirius Black," says Paul dismissively.

Greta gapes. "Believe me, Paul, Evans was _not_ staying with Black—have you met his parents? Complete pureblood nutters."

Next to me, Reg—whose mum is one of the said pureblood nutters and has been rowing with him all summer for dating me—stiffens. Glancing at him with concern, I slide a hand into his lap, and he takes it, smiling gratefully. He's such a sweetheart, Reg is—though he's far too polite for my liking, what with his refusal to dish on the gossip he knows and all.

Oh, the trials of being a bumbling, shallow busybody—not that this means I'm admitting to it, mind you.

"I meant that Black's staying with Potter, love," Paul amends. "Didn't you know? He ran away from home—there was a fight about You-Know-Who, but I don't know the details."

I'm surprised by this—I hadn't known about Sirius running away—but that's a discussion for another day. "She did stay with James, but that was earlier—some of the Gryffindors went to a concert and, like, stayed the night at his place after. Leigh told me she spent a few extra days there—exploring his library, or something."

"Figures," mutters Ver scathingly. "Perfect little Evans, spending the night with a bloke to get access to his books…"

"Don't talk about Evans like that, Veronica," says Reg feebly. I give his hand a squeeze—I know how uncomfortable this sort of thing makes him (not that that's going to deter me).

Ver says nothing further, drumming her manicured nails on the seat beside her. Greta asks, "Didn't they go on a date last June, though? Potter and Evans. I heard—"

I shake my head. "Cover story—she needed an excuse to get away from Lene and get her a birthday gift. She was at the McKinnons' before the accident."

Amos comments, "She can't be enjoying her first day back. After hiding wherever she was all summer and now having to face all the rumors…"

"Yeah, well, you don't seem to keen on stopping them," condescends Paul.

"We're not _perpetuating_ them, we're dispelling the false ones," Amos says, glaring at Paul—I'm getting a distinct impression that Greta's mates aren't very happy about her latest boyfriend, and I make a mental note to ask Ver about this later. "She could have been staying with her sister—"

I shake my head. "Couldn't've been. Petunia, like, _despises_ Lily."

"Like, no kidding," says Paul. His voice drips with sarcasm, and I fight back a strong impulse to stick my tongue out at him.

"I heard something, maybe a week back," says Ver suddenly, "about her staying with some Auror… somebody's uncle here at Hogwarts?"

Greta gives some polarizing opinion or other in response, but I tense with recognition. The whole month of August, Leigh only ever came to _my_ house, and she wasn't with her siblings when I saw them on the platform earlier…

The compartment door slides open, breaking my train of thought. We're all rendered speechless as none other than Lily Evans herself steps in, tailed by a tabby cat and starting to ask, "I'm sorry, but have any of you seen… oh." She stops herself and looks down, clumsily tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Oh. It's like that, then," she finishes, much quieter.

We all watch with bated breath, mortified—or, at least, I'm mortified. Paul is inappropriately smug (I'm starting to agree with Amos about him), and from the looks of it, Ver might be trying to Petrify her with looks alone. The cat hisses. "Lily, wait," I say anxiously, but Lily just looks at me with bitterness in her eyes, then turns and walks out without so much as a slammed door in her wake.

When I said I shouldn't be judged for my lesser qualities—I take that back.

My shame overpowers my better instincts, so when I jump to my feet and leave the compartment, I'm in hot pursuit not of Lily but of Leigh. When I find her compartment again, I don't even bother greeting the boys and round on her immediately. "McKinnon, you'd better have a good reason why I had to find out about Lily spending August with you and your _uncle_ from _Veronica Smethley_."

Lene visibly pales, while her three companions survey us with visible interest (though I detect from Sirius and Peter the slightest twinges of disgust). "I never told Smethley about it," she says sheepishly, all color drained from her cheeks and not likely to soon return.

"Nor did you tell _me_," I say viciously, jabbing a finger into her chest. "Like, this is what I get—your best mate—"

"Well, you haven't exactly been good at keeping secrets in the past!" snaps Lene, crossing her own arms and staring me down. And it's true—but only for the things that don't _matter_, is what she doesn't realize.

"Right, because, like, I've definitely blabbed all about your _family history_," I seethe. At the other end of the compartment, Sirius and James exchange a look. "And whomever you told deemed it appropriate to spread the news to the _Hufflepuffs_, which doesn't say much about your judgment, now, does it?"

Leigh fidgets. "Take your concerns up with Lily herself, then, because I didn't tell _anyone_ she was with me."

"Where _is_ Lily, anyway?" I pry, looking around (needlessly).

"She and Emmeline are saving a compartment for Alice and some of the other prefects," says Sirius from Marauders' corner. "Prongs here invited them to sit with us, but Evans has been avoiding him all month, the poor bloke."

James's face falls as Sirius brings it up, so Peter distracts us hastily: "Plus, they brought cats this year—" (I interrupt to tell him that Em's is actually a Kneazle) "—and I'm allergic. Why didn't you tell us your uncle's an Auror, Marlene?"

Leigh is growing more uncomfortable by the second. Considering her touchy background, I'd usually do something more to cover for her, but I'm too annoyed to care right now—how could _Ver_ have found out before I did? She turns to Peter and says with a pleading note in her voice, "I—"

She doesn't have to explain, though, because Remus barges into the compartment to interrupt. "Dorcas Meadowes," he says breathlessly, sitting on the other side of Peter. "The new Head Girl is _Dorcas Meadowes_."

I'm so bothered by Leigh's recent secrecy that I don't even care about the scandal, but she jumps on the change of subject immediately, saying, "The Slytherin? Fabian's girlfriend?"

"The one and only," verifies Remus, yawning. He looks exhausted and rests his head against the seat, not even bothering to fish a book out of his trunk. "It was like a lion's den in there. Everyone thought it was between Hestia Jones and Angela Macmillan—Angela took it personally, mind you, I don't think I've ever seen anyone so affronted in my life. Gideon was the worst, of course—he _loathes_ Meadowes like you can't believe—but even the Slytherins were mad; she's none too popular for dating a Gryffindor with them, either. Kingsley and Elisabeth tried to calm things down, but to no avail… Kingsley's Head Boy, of course, everyone saw that coming."

"Meadowes, huh," scoffs Sirius. James gives him a look—he's civil with Meadowes, I know—but Sirius continues, "I used to see her at my parents' parties when we were younger—Death Eater forerunners, you know. Never thought _she'd_ be Head Girl one day—she hero-worshipped Rabastan Lestrange, and look how _he_ turned out."

I know better than to ask. Giving Lene one final look, I get up and announce, "I'm going to, like, head back to my compartment—this isn't over, Marlene."

How could Lene not bloody _tell_ me that she and Lily moved in with Doc? I can understand respecting Lily's privacy and wanting to keep her real father's identity under wraps, but she should know me well enough by now to trust me with that knowledge—especially since hiding it from me must have been hard when I saw her nearly every day for the latter half of last summer.

Suddenly, I don't much care to catch up with the rest of the student body. I usually love the first day of school and the fresh stories that come with it, but other people's business doesn't seem to _matter_ when your best mate can't trust you with hers.

Feeling fairly riled (and inexplicably annoyed with Paul and Ver in particular), I don't go back to my compartment and instead scour the train for a kinder familiar face. I find it in Maggie McKinnon—whose smile droops at the sight of me, but then, maybe that's the kind of person I should start hanging around.

If I had an ounce of sense, I probably wouldn't like myself much, either.

"D'you mind if I sit here, Maggie?" I request, poking my head in her compartment.

I know she doesn't like me, but by association with Leigh, she lets me in. I don't recognize the others in her compartment, but judging by the fact that she's reading quietly by the window seat, I shouldn't recognize them as her friends.

We don't talk much for the duration of the train ride—but then, between Maggie and me, that's only to be expected. To be honest, Maggie doesn't like much of anyone, other than her siblings—not that this ever seems to bother her. I join her and a couple fifth years (is it really my sixth year already? fifth year went by so fast with so little to show for it) in the carriages as well and only part from her upon entering the Great Hall, when she leaves for the Ravenclaw table.

I yawn my way through the Sorting—honestly, who really cares about the Hat's song-and-dance, or how many first years are Sorted into Gryffindor? I nearly miss Matt McKinnon's Sorting, not that there's much to see: the Hat deliberates for just a few seconds before declaring him a Hufflepuff. The feast itself is equally tedious, for the food doesn't make up for the tension between us sixth years. Leigh is now avoiding the Marauders _and_ me and is talking with Lily and Em, leaving me with Alice for the duration of the meal—and sorry to say, I've never exactly been Alice's biggest fan. She chatters on about O.W.L. scores for a good part of dinner, and I'm entirely unsurprised to learn that her marks are stellar: five Os and five Es. (At this news, Lily, whom Marlene tells me earned four Os and an A, does an incredibly poor job of covering up her disappointment and struggles to look like she's listening to Lene.)

It occurs to me that this is the first time we've all been together since Lily's going-away party, and that it's not exactly a happy reunion. There's an obvious fight on the horizon between Lily and James, judging from the looks they're giving each other (hers warning, his pining)—but there's something not right about the way she's treating the other boys, either, since their usual disinterest has morphed into deliberate avoidance. The Marauders, in turn, are staring down Lene, whose conversation with Em and Lily is all too intent, and she and Lily clearly want nothing to do with me.

For once, I only care about the last of these observations, not that I clue Alice in.

It only gets interesting with Dumbledore's post-feast speech, which is considerably livened up by a couple of his announcements. It isn't until after mentions of the Forbidden Forest, Hogsmeade visits, and Quidditch tryouts that he catches my attention, though, saying, "Next, it is our pleasure to introduce to you the newest member of the Hogwarts staff, who will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this school year—Professor Tonks."

Lukewarm applause fills the hall, but something rings a bell: the name sounds familiar. I strain for a glimpse of the new professor: she's chocolate-and-white, with brown eyes and hair against the palest skin I've seen in a while, and I can't help thinking that some highlights and a tan would do her good. But then I realize her eyes are fixed almost directly on mine—and Sirius's fists are clenched on the table when I turn to follow the professor's gaze.

Didn't he mention once that his cousin married a man named Tonks?

Before I can ask Sirius whether he knows her, though, Dumbledore's resumed speaking. "And finally, I'd like to announce a new program that Hogwarts is proud to host for the first time," he's saying, smiling. "After lengthy collaboration to make this opportunity possible, we and the Ministry of Magic will be sponsoring work-study programs available to sixth and seventh year students to help counteract the recent economic downturn." There's a brief pause—everyone knows that the said "downturn" was caused by the war with You-Know-Who—but a buzz of speculation soon arises amongst us older students.

The Hall quiets again, though, as Dumbledore lifts his hands for silence. "All seventh years will be guaranteed their desired positions, and sixth years can compete for the remaining available internships after seventh years receive their assignments. Programs are available in six departments of the Ministry and include, among others, setup for the 1978 Quidditch World Cup, junior ambassadorships in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and accelerated Auror training. Further details will be available from the Heads of Houses tomorrow for seventh years and Friday for sixth years."

Chatter from the students drowns out the Headmaster's closing words. It's certainly an exciting prospect—how many students, I wonder, would want an internship in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures? I turn to my classmates for their reactions; Leigh has broken her silence with my end of the table to talk to Alice about the Auror program, and Lily is yakking to a disinterested Em about the mentioned ambassadorship. The boys, though, don't seem nearly as interested: Remus in particular waves off James's concerned-looking questions, his face pale (though not with the same worry that accompanies him on his monthly visits to his mother).

Peter catches my attention as students start rising to find their dormitories, asking, "You're all right, Mary? You haven't said much all evening."

I glance at him, startled, and smile benignly. "I'm fine, Peter, thanks," I say, even though I'm not. "Guess I'm just, like, tired from the train ride."

Something like that, anyway.

We all break apart then—Alice and Remus leave with the prefects, and the rest of us head up to our respective dormitories… well, most of us do, anyway. "Where's Lene?" I wonder aloud in the girls' dorm, shutting the hangings on my four-poster and starting to get changed. I hear scuffles at the other end of the dorm, probably the cats—we're keeping them up here because of Peter's allergies. I don't doubt that Em and Lily bought them together: Lily would never name a cat Aquarius of her own accord.

"She went off with Sirius somewhere," answers Lily quietly. The news makes me uneasy—Merlin knows those two can't be trusted together—but I'm still too annoyed with Lene not for telling me about Lily to seek her out, so just shrug halfheartedly as I wriggle into my pajama shorts.

Em, I recall, is reading in the common room, and Alice is discussing prefect duties with Remus, leaving me alone with Lily for the first time since she walked in on my Hogwarts Express compartment. A pang of guilt runs down my spine, and I hastily yank on a nightgown and open the curtains to talk to her. Lily's sitting on the edge of her own four-poster, fiddling with the lining of her baggy new nightshirt (does that witch own _anything_ that fits her properly?) and looking pointedly down.

Hesitantly, I approach her, and she doesn't react when I sit down next to her—but then, she doesn't pull back, either. That's a good sign, right? "Look, Lily… I'm, like, sorry about the train earlier." She scoffs, still not looking up at me, and I sigh—I could probably have sounded more sincere than that when I apologized. "I didn't know whether you were ready to talk about it, so I just, like—"

"Look, Mary, it's fine, I don't care," she insists, but I don't believe her. Who would?

"But I care," I retort, twiddling my thumbs nervously. "I know we've never really gotten on well—" I can tell she's holding in an insult here "—but I, like, want to make sure you're all right."

Lily shrugs, looking shiftily at me. "I'm fine," she mutters, scooting backwards on the bed and slipping under the bedspread. "Just, please, go to bed, Mary." Moonshine—Em's Kneazle—curls up atop the covers with her, almost defensively.

I want to say that no one who loses her parents at sixteen can be _fine_, but I don't want to push it after everything else that's happened today. Instead, I sneeze defiantly on Moonshine and then climb into my own bed—but not before applying liberal amounts of "Sleekeazy's Hair Potion—For Blondes" to my roots.


	9. September 2nd: Alice Abbott

**September 2****nd****: Alice Abbott**

I guess one could call me something of a peacemaker, and that'd probably be true. I hate conflict, but even more than that, I hate confrontation: if you don't have anything nice to say, for Merlin's sake, help keep the peace for those of us who aren't bitter and miserable, is that so much to ask? However, today isn't about avoidance; it's about making sure that classes are relatively civil, and judging by the awkwardness from yesterday—Marlene and Lily are both cross with Mary, for some reason, and Lily tells me she's wanted nothing to do with any of the boys since her parents died, for whatever reasons she has—that could prove to be a bit of a challenge.

Besides, after finding Marlene and Sirius at it _again_ after I neglected them for barely ten minutes last night to talk to Remus, it'll take a lot of effort today to make sure I don't let that happen again. Can you imagine the field day Mary would have if the rest of the school started finding out about them? What kind of a negligent prefect would I look like if this got out when I've known about it for so long?

But I digress. My WWN alarm radio wakes me up at half past five, since I know that Marlene is such an early riser, and even exhausted as I am (I hadn't gotten much sleep worrying about my mates last night), I hasten to shut it off before anyone else wakes up. Thankfully, no one is a light enough sleeper but me to be disturbed by it—that, and setting the volume on its lowest setting and placing the radio in my bed with me might have had something to do with it.

Blearily, I stumble out of bed (and, unfortunately, on top of Aquarius) and check inside Marlene's hangings to make sure she hasn't already snuck off to the boys' dormitory; luckily, she's still here and snoring away, which I would have been able to hear from my own bed if I weren't so tired. Shaking my head at myself (and nearly falling over in the process), I decide to wait down in the common room, where at least I can turn a light on and busy myself without risking waking up the other girls, particularly Lily—that poor girl more than anyone could use some extra sleep at this point in her life, especially after braving so many rumors yesterday.

To my great surprise, though, the common room isn't deserted; James Potter is already awake and reading, sprawled across a sofa with his glasses askew. "G'morning, Potter," I greet with a smile, sitting precariously next to him on the sofa once he's had a chance to straighten himself out for me.

He inclines his head, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "Hullo, Abbott," he says in turn, tossing aside his book—a _very_ worn copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_, I notice—and blinking. "What're you doing up so early?"

"Waiting for Marlene," I say, sighing and glancing worriedly up at the girls' staircase, as if she's going to sneak down any moment. "And you?"

James hesitates, then says, "Waiting for Padfoot." After an awkward pause, we both laugh nervously and exchange a look. "You know about last night, then?"

I nod anxiously. "Everyone knows about last night—all of us girls do, anyway. She told Lily after dinner that she was meeting him, apparently; Lily let me know when I came up to the dormitory, so I sought them out and got Marlene to come up to bed."

"I admire you for that, you know, Alice," he says in earnest. I raise an eyebrow, and he elaborates, "For doing something about—them. Merlin knows how often Marlene was over last August to see him, and I never had the nerve to put a stop to it… he moved in with me in August, Padfoot did. His mum burned him off the family tree… something happened at home, but he wouldn't tell me exactly what."

He trails off, and I shrug modestly. "Just seems like the right thing to do, at least for Marlene's sake," I explain. "I don't know why Sirius is involved with _her_, but it's not good for her to be around him alone like that so often. It's unhealthy, since they're not in a real relationship. She barely looks at him in public…"

"And yet the whole house seems to know about them, somehow," says James darkly. I tut, shaking my head. "I'm up early every day anyhow—I'm a bit of an early riser—so I figured that stopping them from getting going this early in the morning was the least I could do."

"I had to set my alarm. Thank Merlin you're already awake, else I might have fallen asleep again the second I came down here," I joke, rubbing my eyes.

James takes a good look at me and laughs. "You look like you might have."

"Oh, thanks," I say dryly, now tying my hair out of my face. "I'm sorry that I look like such a mess, Potter, but I didn't think anyone else would be awake yet…"

He rolls his eyes, sighing. "Why do all girls apologize for looking awful all the time? For one thing, you look fine, I'm not much better myself—" I look him over; he's gotten dressed, at least, but his robes badly need to be ironed, and his hair is just as sloppy as mine (not that that's out of the ordinary, really) "—and for another, girls don't suddenly turn ugly because they haven't done their hair yet or whatever else. Either you're ugly to begin with, or you're not; whether or not you're wearing makeup doesn't change that."

I laugh bitterly, running my fingers through my hair like a comb. "Unfortunately for us girls, most blokes won't agree with you on that count, James, but it would be great if you could spread the word to Marlene and Mary one of these days. Merlin knows they waste far too much money on their looks."

"It's not a waste, Alice, it's an investment," comes Marlene's voice from the stairwell; we turn to see her glaring halfheartedly at the both of us. "Just because you lot are used to seeing me like this…"

"Morning, Marlene," says James, smirking.

She raises an eyebrow at him. "What are the two of you doing up so early, anyway? I would have expected this from you, J, but Alice—"

James and I swap a look. "Couldn't sleep, so I came down here to wait for someone to wake up a few minutes ago, and James was here already," I say—a half-lie, but Marlene buys it. "What do we have first?"

"Defense Against the Dark Arts," James replies, stretching—because McGonagall's morning today will be devoted to figuring internships for the Gryffindor seventh years, scheduling was done last night after dinner. "Should be interesting, yeah?"

"Professor Tonks… it rings a bell," I murmur.

Marlene nods, plopping down on my other side. "Sirius's cousin. She's estranged from the family, too—her husband's Muggle-born. You reckon she wants to keep an eye on him because of last August?"

"It's possible, but we'll have to wait and see in today's lesson," says James.

To both James and my relief, Marlene doesn't try to see Sirius for the rest of the morning; we stay downstairs talking like that for a few hours, until students start trickling in and Marlene and I head back up to the dormitory to change. We tell James first that we'll find him again at breakfast, but he's in no mood to talk by the time we find the other sixth year Gryffindors in the Great Hall: Lily is noticeably avoiding him, and he looks too upset by this to make decent conversation. Mary doesn't look especially reconciliatory toward Marlene, either, so I guide her carefully over to Lily, shrugging helplessly in Mary's direction (she looks at me pleadingly, but I just tilt my head toward Em and shrug again).

It doesn't help matters that the first period of the day is the _one_ class that all nine of us are enrolled in. Scheduling worked out this year so that Gryffindors in our year won't be divided up for any classes—and as such, the first (and only) class of the day is Gryffindor-only, throwing all of us, tensions and all, into one classroom with a relative of one of our number. From the looks of it, Peacemaker Alice will have to work overtime to keep everyone's cool today.

I'm the last one to class—Marlene forgot her textbook up in the dormitory, and I loan her mine and go back for it myself, since I can use my prefect title as cover in case I'm late. I'm not—late, that is, though I barely make it there with two minutes left—so I don't make any excuses as Professor Tonks lazily closes the classroom door with her wand. "You're Alice Abbott, then?" I nod, putting on my most innocent face. "All right—that makes all of you. I'd like to start today with something of a diagnostic assessment of your abilities. I'll have a written test prepared for your next lesson, but for today, I want you to duel one another—_only_ using spells you've practiced in class before, I don't this to end badly, all right?"

Oh, Merlin. So much for keeping the peace… The boys immediately pair up together: James with Sirius, Peter with Remus. Tonks, though, stops them immediately—and considering that she's related to a Marauder, I can't blame her. "Did I tell you to start pairing off yet? There's an odd number of you, so—Sirius, you're with me. As for the rest of you—who are the prefects here? Remus and…?"

I raise my hand and step forth, glancing at Sirius; he's enraged, shooting Tonks the dirtiest of looks he can muster. "I am, Professor."

"Alice, right?" asks Tonks; I nod in confirmation. "All right, Alice, I want you with James today. Remus and Peter, I want you separated, too—don't think I don't remember what happened the last time I let Sirius babysit for me."

Remus in particular blushes at this comment as he approaches Marlene; they don't talk much, but if I were he, I'd want to work with someone who earned an Outstanding O.W.L. in the subject, too (and Lily hasn't been too keen on him lately). Lily won't even look at Mary _or_ Peter and pairs up with Em instead, leaving the former two together.

All right, maybe we can survive the next hour and a half without anyone getting hurt… on second thought, Sirius looks like he's about to kill someone, particularly Tonks.

Forcibly pushing Sirius out of my mind (given Tonks's assignments, it's not like I can stop him from doing anything rash), I walk up to James and smile. "You're everywhere today," I remark as we both bow and raise our wands.

"I could say the same of you," he mutters, grinning, as Tonks calls for silence.

"On three, all right? One—two—three—"

"_INCARCEROUS_!" bellows James.

Before I know it, I'm bound in ropes, unable to move. "_Relashio_!" I cast—my spellwork is much quieter than his—and in a great burst of smoke, the ropes fall to the floor. "_Impedimenta_!"

"You're good. I didn't think you were going to get out of it," he comments, sounding a little muffled, since the curse restricted movement in his jaw. "Your wand wasn't even pointed at the ropes…"

"Eh, well, it hit the ropes by my ankles and spread up from there," I explain modestly, Vanishing the fragmented ropes while I have a chance before resuming guard. Any second now, the curse should wear off… "_Tarantellegra_!"

He deflects it instantly, though I'd been expecting that. "_LEVICORPUS_!"

Even hanging in the air from my ankle, I maintain a steady grip on my wand. "_Silencio_. _Furnunculus_!"

Rendered speechless, he's unable to react to the boils sprouting across his skin. I'm taken by great surprise, thus, when a Stinging Hex hits me in the chest, followed by the Conjunctivitis Curse—with my nerves temporarily on fire, I'm unable to lift my arm and cast the counter-curse to the spell that blurs my vision and makes me unable to see (and attack) James. The one upside: the Stinging Hex knocked me to the ground.

_Wandless magic_, I realize. We haven't studied it yet, but then, James is always ahead in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Transfiguration. Assuming (correctly, it turns out) that he's had time to cure the boils, I brainstorm spells as I wait for the hex to wear off, then cast the counter-curse and think, _Incendio_!

He's not the only one who's practiced wandless magic. I only feel a twinge of regret in knowing that his skin will blister, first from the boils and now from the flames—he knows the counter-curses, and Madam Pomfrey will have an antidote on hand. Barely before he's back on his feet: _Petrificus Totalus_.

Without having heard the incantation, he can't cast a Shield Charm or deflect it before he freezes and falls to the ground like stone. James is unable to direct his wand and stop the curse—I've won the duel.

With over an hour left in class, I free him and help him to his feet, suggesting another round. Tonks is too occupied with Sirius to notice that we've finished; I assume that she'll look each partnership over in a Pensieve or something to that effect after class to assess us all. I notice vaguely that nothing comes to a head during class, to my relief—Sirius, though, is showing no respect for his professor, and I suspect that Tonks would be in the Hospital Wing within the first quarter-hour of class if she weren't such an experienced duelist. Indeed, when she calls time a few minutes before the bell, she tacks on after (wiping caked blood off her forehead), "And twenty points from Gryffindor for use of illegal spells, Sirius. A word after class?"

To no one's surprise, Sirius doesn't look happy. James is staring at him even more than he is at Lily, an obvious cue for intervention. "You fought brilliantly back there, Potter," I compliment him.

He glances at me, as if just noticing that I'm in the room, and flashes me a grin. "Same to you, Abbott," he says in turn, running a hand through his hair. "If anyone asks, though, I won more rounds than you did."

"Just keep telling yourself that," I laugh, hopping onto a desk. "I didn't realize you knew how to perform wandless magic."

"Yeah, well, I didn't know _you_ did," James responds. Since his first nonverbal spell, the rest of our dueling had all been cast in utter silence. "If I hadn't, that would have been really creative on your part—that _Silencio_ you cast, I mean."

I shrug. "Not creative enough, apparently."

The bell rings, interrupting. I groan, glancing at the other girls—Mary is shooting dangerous looks Marlene's way. "If you'll excuse me," I say, nodding in her direction; James laughs and lets me go, hanging back to wait for Sirius.

To my great relief, the girls come to an unspoken truce during the free period (which I spend practicing my dueling more with Em) and are talking normally during lunch, as if nothing happened in the first place. James interprets this as a little _too_ good of a sign and tries to approach Lily, and he almost looks to have pulled it off—Lily, at least, seems to have run out of the energy it takes to evade him—but Marlene is especially defensive of her and sees to it that James keeps clear away for the duration of the meal. It's like this for the rest of the day, girls against boys for Lily's sake, and while I'm not sure how long this will hold up long-term, I go to bed that night with a clear conscience, knowing that I've done my part to keep heads from rolling.

There's no such luck the next morning, though. The day starts on a tense note when we fill out applications for what limited internships are available with McGonagall in the Great Hall; judging by what she says, there are hardly any spots still available, and we leave breakfast low on both food and confidence alike. We aren't all enrolled in Potions, the first class of the day—there are six Gryffindors and four Slytherins, as we find out after walking together to the dungeons. Lily tenses up when she meets Snape's eyes, and judging by the look on James's face, the class won't end well.

Slughorn is delightedly oblivious—and that includes of Lily and Snape's split. "Partner up!" he says merrily, and he looks utterly shocked when Lily shuns Snape and turns immediately to Marlene. I partner Remus; though I've seen a lot of James lately, I know Remus better from prefect duties, and James is bound to work with Sirius anyway (which he does, almost as fast as Lily seeks out Marlene).

Just as soon as he's given the instructions—we're brewing the Draught of Living Death today—Slughorn is quick to make his rounds across the classroom, asking after students' summers and giving out Slug Club invitations to a preliminary "supper" at the end of September. It's the same faces as always, often creating tension between partners: me but not Remus, Lily but not Marlene. James and Sirius are both invited, though, as are Snape and Belby (Carrow and Fletcher shoot them jealous looks from their cauldron, I notice through the blue steam filling the room).

Remus, at least, has the patience with Slughorn to immerse himself in the potion while he's talking to me; the conversation is a lot more explosive at Lily and Marlene's table. "I hope you had a good summer, then, Lily?" asks Slughorn, his eyes twinkling.

Marlene answers for her; Lily's face starts heating up, and she lets her hair fall over her eyes to hide this as she stirs her draught. "Her parents were killed in a car accident, Professor," Marlene says brusquely.

Slughorn gasps, visibly taken aback. "I'm so sorry to hear—I had no idea—"

Rolling her eyes, Marlene bites coldly, "Yes, yes, she appreciates your condolences and would be happy to come to your party to ease her pain. If you don't mind, we're trying to brew a potion here."

I've never been close to Marlene—our personalities are too different, I've always thought—but I'm starting to see why Lily's become so loyal to her in the past few months. High marks and prefect badges can't defend you, after all… even if having supportive mates sometimes means losing house points when said mates talk back to professors on your behalf. Lily, though, doesn't look especially grateful when Marlene throws in a bit too much sopophorous juice and blows up their cauldron all over Slughorn's robes.

"Perhaps it isn't the best idea to pair the two of you up," says Slughorn nervously after casting a quick cleaning charm on the surroundings. "I wouldn't want my most talented pupil failing on account of a poorly chosen partnership! No, I think it's best that you work with a student of your caliber… Severus, perhaps?"

They tell him _no_ simultaneously—Lily sounds panicked, Marlene furious. "I'll work with her, Professor," volunteers James after an awkward pause, ignoring Sirius's glares and Lily's groans. "I wouldn't mind changing partners—"

"Well…" Slughorn looks torn, glancing between Lily and Snape.

"I'm sure you know that I earned an Outstanding O.W.L. in Potions, Professor," says James. He glances at Lily, who's looking anywhere but at him (but still seems miffed by this statement). "And Snape is doing just fine without her." Slughorn agrees hesitantly, and James and Marlene trade places—I wonder what Marlene and Sirius think about working together, since they usually avoid each other in public.

Class passes quickly from then on—though that may have more to do with Remus and my immersion in our potion than today's social outlook. As soon as we're out in the corridor after the bell rings, James, surprisingly, confronts Snape, shooting a Trip Jinx his way to detach him from his Slytherin classmates. "Have anything to say to Lily, Snivellus?" he demands.

"James, don't," says Lily softly, her eyes wide, but Snape doesn't spare her a sympathetic glance.

The rest of us lag behind—Remus pulls on Sirius's robes to stop him from joining in. "What, do I owe the Mudblood an apology now?" Snape sneers, whipping out his wand.

"So that's how it's going to be, then?" James says, dangerously calm. "You're not even going to give your former best mate the dignity of being called Muggle-born? Since Wednesday, I've been expecting you to try and win her back—not that you deserve her—"

Snape mutters something that spatters blood across James's face, but he hardly even notices, ignoring Lily's increasingly angry pleas to leave Snape alone. "Can't your ego even take one little snub from her before you run crying back to your little Death Eater friends? To you, she's just a—a—"

He can't bring himself to say it; as he stammers, I come to my senses and interrupt before Snape can curse James again. I step forward, brandishing my own wand. "Ten points from Slytherin for using magic in the corridors, let alone of this nature, Snape. Back to the common room, guys, there's nothing to see here…"

Lily smiles weakly at me as I brush past Snape, dragging a stricken-looking James along with me. After a brief detour to the loo (where Remus heals James's face), we walk up to Gryffindor Tower in silence together and don't bring it up to the others, even when Mary raises her eyebrows in the way that suggests she's going to find out about it one way or another.

I figure it's be better that she find out from us than from the Slytherins, so after several torturous hours of waiting to catch her alone, I pull her aside during the last class of the day. Neither of us has class—the Gryffindors are divided this period between History of Magic and Divination, neither of which we take—so with most of the Tower empty, I figure it's the ideal time to mention it. "About earlier," I start hesitantly after we bid the others goodbye.

She glances at me, her eyes alight. "What was that? I haven't seen James look that upset in, like, ages."

"He and Snape had a row," I explain, lowering my voice so that the seventh years at the other end of the common room don't hear. "He thought it was fishy that Snape wasn't trying to make up with Lily during class… it _was_ fishy, considering how he was begging for her back after O.W.L.s, and he hardly even looked at her today. James confronted him about it, Snape cursed him and called Lily a—well, you know." I fidget uncomfortably. "Lily looked distraught about the whole thing; I was surprised she didn't start yelling at them both, she's usually not this quiet. At least, not when she's around James… he pushes her buttons, you know?"

Mary nods, pressing her lips together. "There's something funny going on between Lily and the guys. I'm not sure what, exactly… it's been a long time coming, though, don't you think? She was acting weird around Lupe and Pett when we got together before her sister's wedding, and now, like, with James and Sirius, too…"

"She wasn't even avoiding James later on," I confide. "It was like she had given up on getting rid of him… It's different with the others; you can tell she's upset with them, but it's different with James. _She's_ different with James."

There's a pause, then Mary says, "I still think, like, it's because she fancies him."

I close my eyes and laugh. "Even if she does, I don't think it's about that… He was with her when she found out about her parents, wasn't he? He could have done something to upset her."

"Maybe," shrugs Mary, and the subject feels closed—oddly, Mary doesn't seem keen on discussing it.

"What happened between you and the other girls, anyway?" I ask while it's still on my mind, leaning forward slightly.

She laughs bitterly, relaxing into her armchair. "It was stupid, really—with Marlene, anyway. Apparently, Lily was staying with her uncle after her parents died because, like, her sister wouldn't take her in, and I think Marlene moved out of her parents' house, too… anyway, she didn't tell me this, I found it out from, like, some of the Hufflepuffs I was sitting with on the train. She didn't even tell me she'd moved out."

"And Lily?" I press.

Mary blushes. I'm taken aback; Mary _never_ blushes, since she rarely has any shame. "She, like, might have caught us talking about her a few minutes after that…"

I sigh heavily and rest my head in my hands. Mary laughs in response, but it's nervous laughter, not the callous sort that I would have expected from her. "Don't stress about it, Mare. She looks to have forgiven you, at any rate."

"Yeah, well," Mary says quietly. "You know, Sirius ran away, too? Not that that's any surprise, either, given _his_ parentage… but, like, I don't think he told any of us girls, except Lene."

I shrug. "James mentioned it to me yesterday morning… we were waiting up for Marlene and Sirius in the common room before breakfast to keep them from seeing each other. You know how Marlene gets after she's been around him too long, and they were already at it Wednesday night…"

Mary nods, and we sit in silence for a minute until she abruptly asks, "Who has class right now again?"

"Er…" I take a second to think. "Lily and James have History of Magic together—it's just them and Amelia Bones in the class, I heard, so prepare for the worst at dinner. And in Divination… Em, of course, and I think Remus and Peter also? So that leaves us and…"

"Marlene and Sirius," finishes Mary, looking horrified.

I catch on and immediately get to my feet, Mary right behind me. "I'll check our dormitory, you check Sirius's," I direct her. "Stay there if you catch them, else come to me; we can start checking broom closets if they're not in either."

Mary doesn't reply, just takes the boys' dormitory staircase three steps at a time. Shaking my head, I hurry up the girls' staircase, feeling incredibly guilty. I should have learned my lesson two nights ago; I left them alone for just a moment together…

But then, just a moment is enough for them to go after each other when they're together, if you can call what they have a relationship; it always takes just a moment of the two of them locked up somewhere together before we're bound to find Marlene shut up in a broom closet with a bottle of firewhisky and her robes still half undone. James may not want to interfere, but I have Marlene's best interests in mind before Sirius's, and what's best for Marlene is _certainly_ not Sirius Black.

I'm not surprised to find the girls' dormitory empty, save Moonshine and Aquarius—I didn't think that the Marauders had found a way up the staircase yet, but even so, it's worth a look if there's even a slim possibility of finding Marlene. I collide with Mary halfway back down the stairwell; she's shaking her head, looking exasperated. "Start on this floor and work our way down?" I suggest, and she nods, because I know she's too afraid of what Marlene will think if she catches them alone.

We scour the seventh floor, then the sixth, and eventually find them holed up in a broom closet a little ways away from the prefects' bathroom. I open the door, knowing it'll bother Mary if she does the honor, then close it again after they've broken apart to give them both a minute to situate themselves. I've caught them early enough that the sight of them isn't scarring, thank Merlin, unlike last time, but they're both still flustered enough that I give them a chance to catch their breath. After a painfully long minute, they come out together, both glaring and furious.

"Ten points from Gryffindor from indecent exposure," I say, and even though neither was indecently exposed in there (let alone publicly so), they don't object. "Sirius, take Mary to the kitchens, will you?"

They depart—Sirius disgruntled and Mary visibly grateful not to have to deal with Marlene, to whom I turn with a heavy sigh. "_Again_, Marlene? It hasn't even been two days."

"I know." She sounds meek and embarrassed, a far cry from her usual, vibrant personality. "It's just—"

"Easy?" She doesn't answer. My harsh expression falls from my face; I've never been good at lectures. "You're worth more than a snog in a broom closet, Marlene," I say honestly, smoothing down her revealingly tousled hair and smiling back (with relief) when the corners of her mouth turn up. "Come on, let's get you downstairs to the library—we have a Potions essay on the history of Amortentia to write, remember? And Mary has a new deck of Exploding Snap to test out after we've checked out the books," I add in response to the look on her face—I may be the studious one, but something tells me that coursework won't do Marlene any favors today.

I'm usually a peacemaker, but I don't back down from a necessary fight… and I try to pull through as a mate when I'm needed, too.


	10. September 4th: Lily Evans

**September 4****th****: Lily Evans**

By Friday afternoon, I was starting to accept that my resolve to keep my head down and James away might not be enough, but that was before I took my mates into account. I came so close to cracking in History of Magic yesterday, cooped up in there with him for an hour and a half straight—but just when I was tired enough to just _face_ him already, Amelia Bones came to my rescue. "Give her space, Potter," she said, pausing in her diligent note-taking to shoot him a warning look, and when she glanced in my direction and saw that my parchment was covered in doodles, she added, "I'll lend you my notes after class, Evans; we can walk down to dinner together."

Amelia Bones, of all people—I can already see her sitting on Wizengamot, and she's only sixteen. The Ravenclaw prefect not known for her kindness or leniency went out of her way to support and break rules for a girl she doesn't particularly know or like, and she stayed true to her word, walking me all the way to the Great Hall and duplicating three pages of notes with a flick of her wand.

I was grateful, but I didn't stay too long to thank her, in case she did any of it out of pity. Whatever her motives, though, it made me realize that I didn't have to do this on my own—and judging by my enlightening conversation with Mary after dinner that day, Marlene wouldn't mind a mutual favor right about now.

So I brave the weekend with a lot more confidence than I had just a few days ago. Breakfast is tricky, since we sixth years usually sit together, but Frank Longbottom, bless him, asks Alice to eat with him and doesn't mind that she brings two tagalongs to the Ravenclaw table. Mary promises to talk to James with Emmeline, and she doesn't disappoint: by the end of the meal, I've not only gone a full hour without discussing any of the Marauders or the incident, but James does nothing more than look at me when I stop by the Gryffindors to ask Mary and Emmeline whether they're done eating. (They're not but promise to meet us up in the girls' dormitory.)

It's a safe haven, the dorm, because even after five years of living in the castle, none of the boys have been able to figure out how to get up our staircase. I'm still a little embarrassed by what happened between me and Mary on the train, and I want to know as much as she does how word got out that I was staying with Marlene last summer, but it doesn't matter here; it's just the five of us girls, a cat, and a Kneazle, and that's enough to make us forget the drama.

It hasn't been just the five of us since that day at Alice's, I realize, looking around. There's a sense of déjà vu, almost—Mary's prattling on about how much she's starting to hate Paul Patil, to Alice's meek protests ("But Mare, if you'd just give him a chance and look past his wit…") and Marlene's bitter agreement ("He's such an arse that even _Catchlove_ deserves better"). Emmeline and I aren't saying much; her nose is buried in a Divination textbook, and I'm preoccupied with the pets, Moonshine in my lap as I scratch behind Aquarius's ears.

The difference, though, is that I don't feel entirely out-of-place anymore: I'm quiet with disinterest, not discomfort. If only everyone would stop looking at me every few seconds like I'm about to break down…

I start paying attention, if only so that Alice will stop looking so concerned. "Like, you should have heard him on the train. 'Careful not to sound callous, Mary,' this, and, 'Don't be daft, Diggory,' that," Mary's saying, looking fed up. "And he kept putting Greta down like she was inferior, and, like, acting like we're all horrid for wanting a bit of good gossip when he was doing it, too—like, no offense, Lily," she adds quickly, double a double-take as she looks at me, then again after she realizes I'm actually looking back.

"None taken," I say. "Water under the bridge, right?"

"Right," agrees Mary, looking relieved. It bothers me more that she reminded me of the incident than that she was talking about me—which doesn't mean much to begin with, since Mary talks constantly about everyone, including her closest friends.

Alice hastily brings the conversation back to Paul. "All right, he can be a bit—a bit _arrogant_ at times, but he's an interesting bloke to talk to if he'll give you a chance."

"I still think he's scum," Marlene says dryly. "What did Catchlove think of it?"

"She was… I don't know. You know how she likes to keep everything polite," shrugs Mary. "Ver's pretty nasty herself, too, but she's just, like, vulgar in general—Paul is only a berk if he thinks you're below him. I can't _stand_ him."

Emmeline mutters, "He must have condescended you an awful lot." Mary fidgets, glaring at her.

I cut in to calm things down. "You won't have to put up with him much, Mary. We only have Ancient Runes and Arithmancy with the Ravenclaws this year, and you don't even take Runes."

"Yeah, but, like, he's still in Arithmancy with me," says Mary, crossing her arms. "Who else is taking it? Us, Alice, Lupe…"

"I'll probably work with Amelia Bones; she told me yesterday that she's taking it, too, after History of Magic. Sorry, Mary," I apologize, looking down.

Mary insists that I not feel guilty for having a partner before Marlene mentions, "Don't get too concerned, Mary. I heard Davies is enrolling again this year—you can work with her and cuss him out all period. Put in a bad word from me, yeah?"

Brightening, Mary nods. "It's not even until, like, Monday afternoon—there's the whole weekend before that. You all have any plans for today?"

We shake our heads. "You're lucky you don't have to take Potions. Slughorn _already_ assigned an essay due next week," complains Marlene, beating her head against her trunk. We're sitting on the floor, for some reason—well, except Alice, who's lounging on her four-poster in an unusually casual stance. "I started it with Alice last night—oh, don't look at me like that, Lily, it was when you were in History," she says as I make a mock-offended face at her.

"How _was_ History of Magic?" asks Mary, lighting up. "It's just you, James, and Amelia Bones in there, right?"

"Surprisingly all right," I admit, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Amelia was brilliant; I didn't have to say a word to Potter, not that I can say the same for him."

Alice dangles her arms over the footboard of her bed. "Lily, _why_ are you avoiding him? Why are you avoiding any of the guys, for that matter?"

I close my eyes and scratch Aquarius a little too hard, provoking an indignant meow. "I heard Lupin and Pettigrew, er, saying some stuff about me last July," I mutter.

"Two months ago," remarks Emmeline, flipping a page.

"It was bad, what they said," I say, sighing. "Not just your run-of-the-mill insults… and Black got in a fight with Potter for standing up for me after, Potter told me. A _physical_ fight—because he agreed with the other two, probably."

There's a pause as they all take this in—to the school's knowledge, James and Black have only fought once, during the aftermath of what I now know to be Black's attempted murder of Severus, and that shocked everyone at the time. "And James?" prompts Mary eventually.

"He… was there," I say vaguely, waving my hand, half honest. "When I found out—you know." I keep talking, faster now because I can tell that the girls all want to interrupt, even Emmeline. "And I don't want to talk about it, not with _him_, not with _you_—so let it go."

"Let her be," says Marlene sharply, and I smile gratefully at her—she hasn't forgotten what it was like last summer. "Reckon we should get down to the Great Hall? It's almost lunch."

We traipse downstairs together—Lupin tries to wave us over to where the Marauders are seated near the hearth, but Marlene pushes us along swiftly toward the portrait hole, muttering deterrents under her breath. The other three aren't quite so supportive that I'm staying away from the boys anymore, judging by their expressions, but no one objects.

After lunch, we part ways: Marlene, Alice, and I head to the library to work on the Potions essay, while Mary goes off in search for Reginald Cattermole and Emmeline resumes her Divination studies. The better part of the day has gone by before Marlene and Alice finish, having had a head start yesterday afternoon; I shoo them away, insisting, "Go enjoy yourselves, I don't need a nanny."

It's nearing curfew by the time I'm done. I'm not as satisfied with my research as I should be, but then, since the incident, I haven't been able to concentrate on much of anything, so that's only to be expected. I've got to pull myself together: I can't afford to let my marks drop, I can't keep copying Amelia Bones's notes forever…

Angry with myself for letting my thoughts stray, I pack up and leave in a hurry. I happen to glance out a window as I fly down the corridors—the moon is well into its first quarter.

That slows me down considerably.

I brace myself to look for James when I reach the common room, making sure to drag out the walk up to Gryffindor Tower as long as I can. Cowardly though it may be, I'm not ready to do this—I don't want to do this—and I'm filled to the brim with anxiety by the time I give the Fat Lady the password and look around.

I spot him after only a moment—all eight other Gryffindors are together in a corner of the room. In the instant before I approach them, I'm stricken; it's like fifth year all over again, when I was the freak outcast with the Slytherin best mate and they were impenetrably close-knit. Looking at them from the outside, I see them as the rest of the school does: the hard lines in Macdonald's face as she gossips, Abbott's smugness as she glances down at her prefect's badge every so often, the haughtiness with which McKinnon occasionally surveys the room's other occupants, Vance's disapproval of everyone around her as she makes the occasional disillusioning remark.

As for the Marauders… Pettigrew's smile is cruel as he laughs at whatever crude joke Black is telling, while Lupin's exasperation is softened by his visible closeness to them both, closeness unattainable by anyone not already in their circle. And James—

He's looking straight back at me, his mouth dangling open in surprise. He doesn't _feel_ like the top student, the beloved Chaser, the bloke who tormented my best mate for five years, nor does he seem to want any of it. He's not arrogant; he's just James.

_James_.

I collect myself and briskly approach him. They cease to intimidate me, together though they may be—it isn't fifth year anymore, and I know now that they're better when you get to know them.

"Potter." We haven't broken eye contact since I met his eyes just outside the portrait hole, but none of the others realize I'm there until I say his name. "Can I have a quick word?"

"Er—I mean, yeah, Lily, sure." He shrugs, bewildered, at Black and follows my lead, not asking questions when I take him up to the boys' dorm. The first thing I notice when I open the door is the stench—then I remind myself that I don't belong here and lock the door behind him to keep myself from looking around. "What's up?"

"The full moon—how soon?"

James freezes, gaping at me, and says after a beat, "Tuesday night. I thought—I thought you wouldn't want to, anymore."

"Are you daft? Do you _honestly_ think I'm going to let you endanger your life just because…" I trail off, not wanting to mention it.

He leans casually against the door. "We've been over this. I'm not in danger, I'm an Ani—"

"An animal, yes. Human Transfiguration, I remember," I say impatiently. "And yet you still came to me covered in blood last July."

James says sheepishly, "That was an, er, isolated incident," and runs a hand through his hair. "Just because what?" It's my turn to hesitate; I press my lips together and feel my eyes widen. "You have to _say it_, Lily—just because _what_?"

I look down, then dart to the door. "Potter, I can't," I say quickly. "I just—I'll see you on Tuesday night. I'll sleep in the common room; wake me up when you come back with Pettigrew and Black."

"_Lily_—"

* * *

It's the last I see of him for the weekend. I stay in the dorm all day Sunday—I can tell from the look on Mary's face that the rumors are going to fly, but I can't bring myself to care. Let them talk, so long as I don't have to see James Potter.

But I can't hide forever, and I find myself staring at him all through Charms on Monday morning. Peter and Mary dropped the class this year, so there are still an odd number of students—but unlike last year, I'm not the odd one out anymore. Lupin squeezes himself at the same table as Black and James, and I partner Alice, since we're both at the top of this class. "I still don't see why you're avoiding him," she tells me as she flicks her wand. "It can't have been _that_ bad, could it?"

"I told you, I don't want to talk to him yet," I say. "_Confundo_." The spell has no effect on the mouse on my desk—it runs straight through the mini-maze to the cheese, just as it's been doing for the past quarter-hour.

"Judging by the way he's been trying to get your attention all week, he's not embarrassed by it, and you shouldn't be, either," says Alice gently. She casts the charm; _her_ mouse meanders off in the opposite direction of the cheese.

I sigh, shooting another look toward James's table—he's conversing with Lupin and Black in low whispers, but he glances at me, and I flush. "Maybe _he_ doesn't think it's something to get embarrassed about, but I don't need the reminder, all right? I just—need more time."

"Lily, it's been a month and a half; how much more time do you need? Here—try flicking a bit more sharply, that should help." The charm works when I take her advice; why is it that I'm failing to perform in one of my best subjects?

Cursing under my breath, I turn to face Alice again. "It's not like I'm putting my life on hold because of it; I just don't want to talk to _one_ person," I sigh, exasperated.

"You were perfectly willing to talk to him on Saturday night—" she breaks off to reverse and repeat the charm "—after which you locked yourself in the dormitory for a full day and went back to ignoring him."

"I just wanted to ask him about this one thing," I generalize, copying Alice's motions; to my relief, this time it works.

"What one thing?"

"I—er—" I haven't yet thought this far ahead. "I asked him to start partnering me in Transfiguration this year so that I can maintain an E average."

Alice raises her eyebrows, leaning back in her seat. "You want to pair up with the bloke you're avoiding."

"It's not a big deal," I mumble. "It's just for school—he stopped trying to make conversation in Potions _and_ in History of Magic when he got the hint." I'm kicking myself at this point: this means _another_ conversation with Potter tonight, since Transfiguration is first thing tomorrow morning, to make sure he knows the story, and I don't even want to work with him to begin with.

Alice seems skeptical but doesn't ask any further questions, and I change the subject to her friendship with Frank Longbottom and firmly keep it there for the rest of class. I find James again during the free period before lunch, bracing myself with the knowledge that he's not enrolled in my afternoon class, Arithmancy—it's easier today, because he's only with Black when I approach him. "Potter," I say—lowering my voice because we're in the common room. "I'm partnering you in Transfiguration."

"What? But—Padfoot and I always work together in Transfiguration." James looks utterly bemused; Black, surprisingly, is uncomfortably avoiding eye contact.

"Yeah, well, I told Alice that's why I wanted to talk to you yesterday, so unless you want everyone knowing about Lupin's—what do you call it? 'Furry little problem'?" This wins him over, and he nods slowly, staring openly at me.

I turn to leave, but Black stops me, reaching out to grab my forearm. "You meant it about helping us when we get back?"

"Just tell me the date every month, and I'll meet you in the common room," I confirm, tensing up—I still don't trust him after his fight with James.

He looks surprised by this but doesn't voice it, instead saying, "Then thank you. I know from Prongs that you don't approve, and… thanks for everything." He pauses for so long that I start to walk away again, only to hear, "And Evans—for what it's worth, I don't believe you'd ever reduce yourself to Dark magic, even for your best friend."

This surprises me: what else could he and James have been fighting about? "Then why did you—?"

"Miscommunication with Prongs. I thought he told you—something else. I trust you with this." It's James's turn to look awkward, so I don't push it—whatever it is, I don't want to know. "We'll see you?"

"Yeah—see you," I say, a little rattled, and I nod goodbye to James after a second's thought before departing.

The rest of the day passes unfortunately fast, including Arithmancy—my only academic refuge from Potter. He told me while staying at my house—before the incident, I mean—that in second year, he found out which electives I was going to take from Mary so that he could copy my schedule, but he dropped Arithmancy this year because, by some stroke of luck, he "couldn't stand it more than I love you." I was on good enough terms with him at the time to share my sixth year schedule when requested—a move I'm now regretting.

When I reflect on my performance in Arithmancy just before falling asleep, I can't decide whether I concentrated well because I'd come to something of a truce with James or because he hadn't been there.

Tuesday's daybreak gives me a rather hollow feeling my stomach as soon as I remember what I have to do: partner James willingly and heal both him and his friends after the full moon. The thought subdues me all through breakfast, and I hear the subsequent rumors on my way to class—_Didn't she have a breakdown and shag James Potter in his dorm last Saturday?_ (I'm beyond caring what my classmates think of me by now, but I still have the urge to make a snide remark when I hear this one from Veronica Smethley in the corridors.)

Needless to say, I'm in a foul mood when I reach McGonagall's classroom. I throw my books on a table in the middle of the room (a feeble attempt at compromise—I like the front, James likes the back) and sulk at nothing in particular as the other girls trickle in, occasionally raising my hand in a wave when greeted. The Marauders come in last, and I notice that Lupin is looking paler than ever today before James sets his bag on the desktop next to mine and fumbles through it for his textbook. "Good morning, Lily."

I'm not used to the awkward formality from him—where is the James who calls me Red, who flirts and teases inappropriately, who takes me on fake dates to Hogsmeade and tells me he wants to snog me while rowing on the stairs? I don't voice this, though, just answer with a quick "morning" and moodily drum my fingers on the desk.

If I thought that he was starting to get the hint not to talk to me, I was wrong. "Sleep well?" he asks, pulling his chair a little closer to mine.

I edge away. "Fine," I say—he doesn't need to know that I'm afraid to go off the Dreamless Sleep Potion that I filled my summer brewing, or that Madam Pomfrey refuses to replenish my supply when I run out a fortnight from now. "Ready for tonight?" I add, quieter.

"Are you?" he says instead of answering. The conversation (if you can call it that) cuts off there as McGonagall arrives, closing the door with a snap and sweeping up to the front of the room.

"Open your textbooks to the chapter on _Geminio_, the Duplicating Spell…"

I take diligent notes, determined to succeed with flying colors; the last thing I need is to struggle to catch up in Transfiguration when I already need extra practice in Charms and a long study session for History of Magic. After a half-hour of lecture, we try to replicate small objects—to my short-lived delight, it only takes me ten minutes to get it right—then small animals, which poses more of a problem. James creates a perfect clone of his tortoise within minutes, while my copies all seem to be missing shells. I don't have to ask him for help; he gives it unprompted. "Show me again," he says after another failed attempt, leaning in.

I swish my wand gently upward before jabbing it sharply to the left, then down at the tortoise. "_Geminio_," I enunciate, only to produce another tortoise with no shell.

He pauses for thought as I Vanish the clone, wringing my hands. "Your pronunciation is perfect," he compliments first, flashing me a small smile. "But try drawing out your swish a little longer, and aim for a smaller angle between your last two jabs—curve the flick to the left down a bit in the middle."

I take his advice—the shell dwarfs the tortoise itself. "Not that big of a curve," James laughs. He walks behind me and leans over my shoulder, grabbing my wand hand and tracing the motion through. "_Geminio_—like that."

After a moment of letting him linger over me, I pull my hand out of his grasp and inch forward, enough that I can't feel his hot breath on my neck. "Thanks," I say, and when I cast it again, the resulting tortoise's shell fits just right.

"Practice that a few more times, just like that," advises James. "You're a fast learner, Lily."

"You're a good teacher," I mumble, tripping over my words, and I'm not entirely sure that he hears me.

The rest of the hour I spend conjuring and Vanishing tortoises and ignoring all of James's awkward stabs at conversation. Just when I think he's given it up—there's been a pause for at least five minutes—he says softly, "Just talk to me, Lily—about anything."

But the bell rings; I pack up and rejoin the girls without so much as a goodbye in his direction.

I spend the rest of the day fretting over the Marauders' health and trying not to show it. Emmeline is the only one to sense that something's wrong—and Marlene looks to have recognized my subdued mood, but after living with her all summer, she knows not to acknowledge it. Either way, it's Emmeline who approaches me about it while I'm studying in the common room after curfew; most of the students have gone up to bed, and it's just us and a few second years left.

She says calmly, thumbing through _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six_, "I had a funny chat with Margaret the other month."

I stop in the act of dipping my quill in ink. "Maggie?" Emmeline merely nods, saying nothing more. "Don't you _dare_ repeat—"

"Oh, I won't," she assures me, laughing to herself. "But she already did. Not all the details, of course, just that it was a car crash and that Marlene's uncle is your legal guardian until you're of age, but I know you were m—"

"Don't," I say firmly and resume outlining the section on the Duplicating Spell in my _Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ with sloppier handwriting than before, if that's possible. Emmeline gives me a pensive look, then packs up her things, bids me goodnight, and heads up to the dorm; I shoot the spying second years a withering look and then recline in my armchair, wearily closing my eyes.

At least I've learned who's responsible for the loss of privacy. Maggie McKinnon… I should have known…

I don't realize I'm falling asleep until I'm being prodded awake. Blearily, I sit up in the armchair and see Pettigrew's face materialize in front of me, then sigh with relief—on his face and hands, at least, there isn't any blood. "She's awake," he says, a little more high-pitched than is normal for him, over his shoulder. "It's not that bad today; Padfoot got a little banged up…"

"All right, let me see," I say groggily, reaching for my wand. A hand on my wrist stops me, though—it's James, smiling the first real smile he's directed toward me in a while.

"We should go up to the dorm first," he murmurs, tossing me something fluid feeling and silver. "Here—my Invisibility Cloak. Wear it up and down the stairs, just in case."

I finger the silky fabric, then throw it over my head—nothing looks different, but then, I'm the one under the Cloak. I follow them up the staircase and into their dormitory, shaking off the Cloak and crossing to the beds as James lights a few of the lamps. "Show me," I instruct Black again, sitting next to him on what I can only assume is his bed and blushing a bit as he strips down to his boxers.

Aside from the scars—I'm reminded of my promise to James to reopen and properly heal them for all three boys—and a few minor cuts that a simple _Episkey_ can fix, there are just two long gashes, one that zigzags across his stomach and another running along his inner thigh. "Open your knees," I tell him frankly, pulling out my wand (and whacking him lightly across the head with it because of the look on his face).

It only takes a few minutes: check for internal bleeding, stitch up the skin, press against the wound to ensure that it's healed properly, then repeat for his abdomen. I work in silence—James and Pettigrew retreat to what I can only assume are their respective beds—until Black hisses when I open up a lengthy scar on his back. "I thought you were healing me, Evans, not cutting me open."

"Shut it, Black, I know that didn't hurt—I thought Potter told you, I'm opening back up all the wounds you three closed yourselves and healing you properly. Judging by the looks of your scars, they're at least a little uncomfortable," I tell him. "At least you had the sense to let the small ones heal on their own, from the looks of it. _Episkey_."

"Don't!" I glance up at him, startled. "I mean—leave the rest."

I hesitate for a minute, then ask with genuine confusion, "_Why_?"

Black blushes—I thought I'd never see the day—and Pettigrew answers for him with a snigger, "He thinks they make him look _rugged_."

"Rugged," I repeat, staring at Black with my mouth hanging open. "_Rugged_."

"I never—I didn't—it's _my_ bloody body, Evans, stop violating me!" he cries, swatting me away as I point my wand at another scar.

I can't help but laugh by now as even his neck reddens, and I cross to Pettigrew's bed (shielding my eyes as Black shamelessly drops his boxers and starts changing into pajamas). "Pettigrew, please tell me you're not fool enough to want to look _rugged_," I say dryly, and he just shakes his head, grinning, and takes off his own robes. I start opening his cuts up and fail to suppress another blush—I can only take so many bare male torsos at a time.

It takes longer than I had expected to rid him of scars, and I realize more with every Healing Charm I cast that just how much they're all willing to do for their mate. I'm still carrying a grudge against Lupin by the time I head to James's bed, but even so, he's starting to look like a pretty good guy if he's worth so many wounds.

James has already taken off his robes when I get to his bed (I'm not sure how much longer I can take this before my face physically starts to burn). I've done this with him before, so it's with some fluid familiarity that I run my hands across his chest, back, and thighs, where most of the scarring resides. "You have nice hands," he tells me drowsily as I press my hands against a newly smooth stretch of skin. "Don't know why you ever got interested in politics."

"I'm hoping that was a platonic compliment," I say severely, "but thank you. _Episkey_—I think that's it."

James sits back up and stretches, and I stand to go—only to be pulled into his lap and tightly embraced. I try to wriggle away, but he murmurs in my ear, "Lily—we need to talk. _Muffliato_."

Even though the conversation is now private, I keep trying to make it out of his arms. "_Now_?"

He reaches out to draw the hangings around us, and with the lamplight falling low in the room, we're almost—_almost_—thrown into darkness. "Yes. Ever since your parents—"

It's just _thrown_ on me—the incident, all over again in spirit, right when I was starting to almost forget (because I haven't been able to fully forget, not really)—and all of a sudden, I can't take it anymore. "You were fighting with Mum!" I breathe, even as I give up and relax against him. "You were picking rows with someone you didn't even know and ought to have respected—"

"I don't respect people who put others down, _especially_ you, Lily," James says earnestly, his own breathing shallow.

It's a little ironic, since he's always so eager to put Severus down—but then, now that I'm not bound to him, I'm a little less sympathetic to my ex-best. "Will you stop saying that?" I spit.

He blinks. "Saying what?"

"Will you stop saying my bloody name!?"

James is taken aback, but he recovers quickly. "Red, I didn't kill your mum, if that's what you've been thinking."

At least he's calling me Red again. "Because of you, she was on bad terms with me," I say weakly, burying my face in his bare chest so I won't have to face him. (I try not to remember that I'm in his bed after hours and he's half-naked.) "And I can't ever fix that. The last time I saw her, she was cross with me, and—"

He squeezes my middle, pulling me closer. "The last time we saw her, she was cross with _me_, Red, not you," he implores. "I know you're going through hell right now—"

"Look, Potter, I don't want to talk about it, and I don't need your sympathy," I say, my voice muffled.

Something in me wants to take it back now that I've actually said it, but it's too late for that now, anyway. "It's not sympathy, it's—I thought we were getting to be mates, and then—"

"If you were my mate, I wouldn't have cut you off for a month and a half," I snap. The effect is lost a little since I'm wrapped up in his arms.

"Lily, you were crying in my arms for hours," he says slowly, and I struggle not to fight him on this—it has to come out sooner or later, I acknowledge. "You wouldn't even let me Floo to the Ministry to figure out your custody; I had to _call_ Marlene to ask her to. It's lucky her uncle said he'd take you in, because a family that didn't know you would have had a coronary after you sh—"

I interrupt, because I don't think I can stand to hear it just yet. "I know, Potter," I mumble, "I know."

We just sit for a while, James rocking me back and forth and running his fingers through my hair. "You can sleep here tonight, if you'd like," he proposes. I tilt my face up to look at him, and he smiles, brushing away a few red strands stuck to my face. "Moony's bed is empty, anyway; you can take it. Or I can, if you don't want to get up—"

"No, I—I have to get back to the dorm," I say quickly, not meeting his eyes. He tilts my chin up so I look at him again, and I sigh and mumble, "I, er, have to take my Dreamless Sleep Potion before I go to bed."

He gapes at me for a moment. "You're on Dreamless Sleep Potion? Did Madam Pomfrey approve that?" He can tell from my lack of a response what the answer is. "But Lily, you don't even need it—you were sleeping without it in the common room, weren't you?"

"But I wasn't really _sleeping_, I was more dozing," I protest meekly, resting my head on his chest again.

James isn't having any of it. "I know how hard this is for you, but it's been almost two months—you have to come off of it sometime, preferably sooner than later. "So which bed do you want, his or mine?"

"Yours," I say against my better judgment, because unlike with Lupin, I know James well enough that it doesn't feel wrong. He just nods and scoots out from under me, pulling out the covers and wrapping them around me. "I'm not five, Potter, you don't have to tuck me in at night," I scold him gently, mostly to distract myself.

James smiles and hovers over me for a long moment. His breath tickles my nose and cheeks, reminding me of Transfiguration earlier today. "Mates?"

"Mates." I flush scarlet but nod, ever so slowly, and all I can think about is how his pillows smell like every time he's ever rumpled up his hair and why doesn't it bother me anymore?

His smile widening, he leans in to press his warm forehead against mine, glasses nearly falling off his nose, close enough to—

And then he's gone, casting the countercharm to his earlier _Muffliato_ and hopping into Lupin's four-poster.

* * *

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to **ponytersally**: my apologies for leading you on about James stripping and Lily feeling him up. :)


	11. September 8th: Sirius Black

**September 8****th****: Sirius Black**

I wake up to sunlight filtering in through the windows and soft whimpers coming from Prongs's bed. I frown for a second—Prongs isn't pansy enough to _whimper_, he's a snorer—but then I realize I can hear his snores, too. I glance over to the four-poster next to mine; Wormtail's fast asleep, drooling a bit on the pillow, and I'm startled upright. _They didn't_.

I bolt out of bed and rip open the curtains over Prongs's bed, only to find Evans fast asleep and crying out softly, no Prongs in sight. Taking a page out of Prongs's book from last night—does he think we can't realize when we're being hexed? Wormtail and I aren't _that_ thick—I cast _Muffliato_ so she won't wake anyone else up and draw the hangings again, climbing onto the bed and shaking her shoulder. "Wake up, Evans, it's just a dream," I tell her gruffly—I've never been good with crying girls.

Her eyes shoot open; the whimpers cease. "Black?" she mumbles, sinking lower beneath her covers. "What are you—where—"

"You spent the night in Prongs's bed, apparently," I say, shrugging and moving to the foot of the bed. "You must not have gone back to your dorm at all; you're still in your robes from last night."

"Why do you Marauders always catch me at my most unattractive moments?" Evans sighs, pulling the blankets fully over her head. "What time is it?"

I grab Prongs's watch off his nightstand and fiddle with it. "A little after seven. Bloody hell, Evans, you don't take long to go into R.E.M. sleep, do you? We came up here after six, and then you patched us all up and talked to Prongs after, too…" I only imply that I heard her nightmare, too uncomfortable to state it outright.

Evans ignores the hint. "It's after _seven_ already?" she says, shooting upright and swiping her matted hair out of her face. "The girls are going to know I'm missing… I was going to sneak back down to the common room, but Marlene, at least, will already be up and know I'm not there."

I think quickly, tossing the watch aside again. "It's Herbology today—you're not enrolled, right?" She shakes her head. "All right, then… may I break your nose?"

"Excuse me?" Evans gapes openly at me, shaking off the covers.

"Or your arm or ankle—it doesn't matter, really," I shrug. Since she still looks baffled, I continue, "It'll give you an excuse to go to the Hospital Wing—you can say you spent the night there. I'm headed there to see Moony already; you can come with."

She yawns and pulls herself to her feet, stretching. "As much as I appreciate your creativity, Black, I'd rather not injure myself for an excuse—besides, Madam Pomfrey can heal broken bones in minutes, she wouldn't keep me overnight for observation. Emmeline already knows I was up late in the common room; I'll say I couldn't sleep longer than a few hours and snuck down to the library to do research for Arithmancy."

"Suit yourself," I say, "but you might want to sneak out with the Cloak in case you run into anyone on the way down from the Tower. D'you still want to meet me in the Hospital Wing during class? I'll be in there all day—Wormtail's going to join me during Ancient Runes, too."

"I shouldn't; the girls don't know about Lupin, and they'll wonder where I am," she declines, shaking her head. "Tell him… just tell him to get well from me," Evans adds after a pause, tensing.

It takes me a minute to catch on. "He doesn't think—he _and_ Wormtail don't think you're into Dark magic, Evans," I say softly. "They just—with you talking to Snape and all, they didn't want—"

"I don't talk to Severus," she says sharply, "not anymore. If you'll excuse me, I should go take a bath before breakfast," She brushes past me, opening the hangings and draping the Invisibility Cloak over herself; I see the door creak open and closed a second later.

"_Girls_," I scowl to no one in particular. I cast the countercharm for _Muffliato_ and find Prongs and Wormtail still asleep; they both look dead tired—all of us are dead tired—but I know it'll look suspicious if they miss Herbology. With gruff resignation, I go first to Wormtail's bed and then to Prongs's, tempting them with breakfast to get them out of bed.

We sit with the girls as usual when we enter the Great Hall half an hour later. "Good morning," says Evans quietly, looking at us each in turn—Alice and Mary in particular look startled by this, but we just nod and greet her in a casual rush.

"Lupe visiting his mum again?" presumes Marlene, passing a box of Common Welsh Greens cereal down to Evans. I let Prongs confirm this, heaping pancakes onto my plate and drowning them in syrup—I'll need the energy, after what little sleep I got last night.

"Poor Mrs. Lupin," muses Alice (though not until she's carefully swallowed her dainty bite of omelet). "She must have an awful immune system, or a horribly debilitating disease… I wouldn't know which; Remus is always so reluctant to talk about her."

Wormtail covers for Moony smoothly, fibbing, "He hasn't even told _us_ what she has. We don't think she's terminally ill, though; we see her sometimes over the summer, and she has as many good days as bad ones."

"I hope not," Alice continues, shaking her head. "Maybe it's some kind of an immunodeficiency? Remus must be so concerned for her; he always gets so pale when she asks for him to come home." She stops to take another careful bite of her omelet, and Prongs capitalizes on the opportunity to change the subject.

"Ah, if you ask me, that's more because he dreads coming home to face his furry little problem than that his mum is terribly bad off," he suggests, grinning—there are a few laughs around the table from the girls, who think he's talking about a pet rabbit. "Herbology first today; anyone have a free period?" I gather from the replies that Emmeline and (of course) Evans also dropped the class this year. Nothing follows from the conversation, though: Evans and I both know we shouldn't publicly agree to spend time together today, and Emmeline doesn't much like me to begin with.

I walk Prongs and Wormtail down to the greenhouses, then turn straight around and bolt to the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey tuts at me for mucking up her floors and disturbing the peace, but she doesn't object when I step inside the only drawn hangings in the room and perch on the edge of Moony's bed. He's awake but drowsy, without a scar in sight—his recoveries have been much easier now that we've started spending the full moon with him. "Hullo, Padfoot," he says mildly. "How do you feel?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" I say, smiling. I recline onto the cot next to him, propping my elbow up on the pillow and resting my head in my hand. "Aren't you tired?"

"Madam Pomfrey woke me up to check my wounds about a quarter of an hour ago; I haven't been able to fall asleep since then." Moony rolls onto his back to look up at me properly. "What time did you go up to the dorm?"

"Around six," I say, lowering my voice, "but we were awake for a while after that. Evans took care of the scrapes we got and redid some of the earlier cuts we healed ourselves—for Wormtail and Prongs, at least, she did. She says hullo."

He rolls his eyes and trails a finger along a scar on my forearm. "I'll have to thank her for that later, if she's willing to talk to me, anyway. You wouldn't let her fix yours?"

I intertwine the fingers of my free hand in his to stop the motion—it tickles. "Remember what Marlene said about how they make me look—"

"Rugged, yes, I remember," Moony says, half laughing and squeezing my hand. He sobers up, though, and adds in earnest, "You've got to stop sleeping with her, Padfoot."

"But Moony—"

"No buts," he says over me, even though his voice is soft and cracking with fatigue. "It's not fair to her, and you deserve more than just a physical relationship—"

I sigh. "I don't want to _court_ her, or anyone else, for that matter, Moony. I save my feelings and shit for the Marauders—"

"Language, Padfoot."

I disobey with an even more vulgar swear word (Moony shakes his head like he's never seen anything like me). "I put my trust in my mates, not in some girl who gets all giggly and lightheaded when she's around me."

Moony counters, "Marlene McKinnon is neither giggly nor lightheaded, you know that." I don't refute it, but I don't cave in, either. "One of us has got to get a proper girlfriend one of these days, Padfoot; I think Slughorn's starting to believe we're gay."

"He wouldn't—do you know how many points I've lost in that class for flirting with Mary? Or for _trying_ to flirt with Alice?"

He shrugs. "It might just look like friendly teasing to him. It's bad enough that you and Prongs bring me and Wormtail as your dates to _every_ Slug Club party—"

"However much I'd love to see the look on Mary's face if I invited her—" Moony glares at me and mumbles something about Marlene again "—I'm not going to let him just bring two of us and leave the other two behind. Alice always goes with Longbottom, so unless you can somehow convince Evans to take you—no, I didn't think so. While we're on the subject, would you care to be my date at the next party? It's next weekend—the Saturday, I want to say."

Reluctantly, Moony nods, smiling shyly—no matter how close we all are, he's always a little surprised (maybe even embarrassed) when any of us do something nice for _him_, the werewolf. "You should go back to the dorm and get some sleep. I'll be fine here, I swear."

"I'll get some sleep if you insist, but I'm not leaving you," I say stubbornly. "Budge up."

"There you go again, making me look gay," mutters Moony, scooting to the very edge of the cot—I realize I'm still holding his hand and let it go as I lie down atop the sheets, flat on my back. "And you wonder why it's been so long since my last kiss."

"But Moony, you haven't even had your _first_ kiss yet," I remind him, laughing.

He gives a huge yawn but still manages to snap, "Shut up."

I shove his shoulder playfully and fall asleep for the second time this morning within seconds.

Madam Pomfrey wakes us up what feels like an hour later, looking scandalized. "I want to check on how your wounds are healing up again, Lupin," she says, then adds, looking disgruntled, "And you have a few more visitors who want to see you. Get out of my patient's bed, Black, save it for the privacy of your own dormitory."

_Told you_, Moony mouths at me as I clamber into a sitting position and free up some room for him to lie flat. I glance behind Madam Pomfrey to see Wormtail and Prongs squeezing their way under the curtains—and, surprisingly, Evans, already in a chair and looking rather embarrassed to be here. "Shut it, Moony—I thought you didn't want to come up here, Evans."

"I should get going soon," she says hesitantly, "the girls are going to wonder where I got off to now that Herbology's out… it was just me and Emmeline, though, and she's not much for company. Didn't even ask where I was going when I left. Lupin—I mean, Remus—I—"

"And yet I'm _still_ 'Potter' to you," remarks Prongs, looking mock put out. (Wormtail laughs, as if on cue, and Prongs rounds on him with a glare.)

"Look, Lily," sighs Moony, pulling down the sheets for Madam Pomfrey, "thank you for accepting—my condition—and everything." He glances every-so-slightly at Prongs, Wormtail, and me in turn, since he can't specify "everything" in Madam Pomfrey's presence (or Evans, even). "And about what I said earlier—"

Evans tucks her hair behind her ear, shaking her head a few times. "Don't worry about it, Lupin, all right? You, too, Pettigrew," she says quickly; she and Wormtail share a look, her blushing, him grinning.

"Now that we've filled the sap quota for the day," I say briskly, breaking off the cozy looks. "Anyone up for a round of Exploding Snap?"

Madam Pomfrey scolds on her way out from under the hangings, "This is a Hospital Wing, Black—no explosives allowed. I'll be back with your lunch at noon, Lupin."

"So tell me what's new," says Moony after Madam Pomfrey's retreated to her office. "Quidditch tryouts are this weekend, right?"

"Gid says he's having them Friday night," says Prongs, nodding. "Should be an exciting day—we're finding out about the internships after lunch then, too."

Moony's face falls as Prongs realizes his mistake. Wormtail says quickly, "Don't worry about it, Moony, I'm sure we'll all get one—"

Moony shakes his head, his face falling. "I doubt it. Employers never want to hire werewolves…"

"That's ridiculous," Evans says firmly, her knuckles whitening. "It's just a daytime thing—your lycanthropy won't even be an issue on the job."

"Shouldn't, but will," mutters Moony, closing his eyes.

There's a beat, briefly. "You should get back to sleep," Evans decides, leaning down to rummage through her back. "Potter, I have your Invisibility Cloak still; we should wear it on the way out."

"It's not a crime to be seen in the Hospital Wing," Prongs points out, but he catches the Cloak all the same when Evans tosses it to him.

"I'm staying. We're not leaving Moony alone here," I insist as Prongs tucks the Cloak in his robe pocket and turns to go.

Moony starts to claim that it's not necessary, but Wormtail talks over him: "You've already been here all morning, Padfoot. I'll stay."

"No, you won't," says, unexpectedly, Evans. "_All four_ of you could use a bit of rest before lunch—sooner or later, it's going to start looking suspicious when you're all exhausted every morning after Lu—Remus—leaves to 'see his mother,' and besides, when are you ever separated? _I_ will stay here; if anyone asks, I'll just say I've been helping out Madam Pomfrey again. Tell that to the other girls for me, will you?"

"She has a point," says Moony fairly, blushing pink again.

Reluctantly, I get up, trying not to watch as Prongs stares at Evans with something tantamount to awe. "Thanks, Evans," I say in a jumble before stepping outside the canopy with Wormtail—Prongs hangs back for a moment, and I catch an indistinct murmur of banter—flirting from him, teasing rejection from her.

Neither of us mentions this, though, when Prongs emerges, pulling the Invisibility Cloak from his pocket. "Pomfrey's not looking? All right, get under, quickly…"

After a much-needed nap and lunch, Wormtail and I trade places with Evans, who's sporting a cautious sort of smile when Prongs accompanies her out. Moony's mostly asleep for the rest of the day, but we don't leave his bedside until dinner, and then only at Prongs's urging.

As expected, the girls are more curious than is safe for us. "Where've you been all day?" pries Mary through a mouthful of stew. "_You two_ were acting odd in Herbology… and, like…"

Wormtail and Prongs exchange a look. "Long night," explains Prongs as offhand as he can. "McGonagall's essay, you know. Lily asked for our help with it."

This, apparently, is the wrong thing to say, judging by the look on Marlene's face. "Any of you trying out for Quidditch tomorrow?" I say smoothly, piling mashed potatoes onto my plate. "We'd be honored to have one of you lovely ladies on the team with us."

Evans chokes into her pumpkin juice, attracting Marlene's attention. "You know, Lily, you should go for Beater," she says, smiling. "You were brilliant for a beginner at that game last June."

"I don't think so," she says unsurely, coughing into a napkin. "Quidditch isn't really my thing."

"To each her own," replies Alice, though Marlene isn't quite so content with Evans's decision. "I'm sure you'll both make the team again, Potter, Black—you play brilliantly."

Wormtail nods his excited agreement, I thank her melodramatically—and Prongs blushes and mumbles something incoherent. If you ask me, he needs to hang around Evans less.

We all leave the Great Hall together—Madam Pomfrey's kicked us out of the Hospital Wing for the day, claiming that Moony needs his rest more than his mates, and we can't do much about her verdict. Mary's saying something about Veronica Smethley's hopeless adoration of Gilderoy Lockhart when _he_ crosses our path, flanked by three other Slytherins, and stops dead. "Sirius—"

"Save it," I say bitterly, shoving past him. "Don't you have your little Death Eater friends to suck up to now?"

"But I don't want—"

Marlene starts to say something that I point-blank ignore. "Should have thought about that before you started talking with them about maybe joining up, shouldn't you have?"

I whirl around and stare him down—the other Slytherins are cracking their knuckles, but he puts a hand out to stop them, his jaw working wordlessly. Finally, he manages, "She burned you off the tapestry, you know. Just like Professor Tonks—"

"Can't even call her Andy anymore? Your own cousin?" I snarl. "You continue to disgust me. Let's go." The other Gryffindors don't speak, don't even move. "I said _let's go_! Bugger off!" I bellow at the gathering bystanders.

The walk back is as tense as after Prongs confronted Snivellus last Thursday, except instead of subdued silence, the girls impose forced conversation. "Don't even think about him, Sirius," Mary advises me as we reach the Fat Lady. "Take it out on, like, Slytherin in general—like in Quidditch, maybe. You're trying for the house team again, right? We could use the win, since, like, Slytherin came in second in last year's—"

"Merlin, Macdonald, do you every shut up? Or are you too thick to take a hint?" I spit, shoving past Wormtail on my way through the portrait hole.

Mary recoils but doesn't respond; Alice starts to defend her (by taking off house points, no doubt), but it's Marlene who really rounds on me. "Leave Mare out of it! Just because you ran away from home—"

"Like you didn't do the same thing," I mutter, fuming.

"Too afraid to say it to my face?" yells Marlene, stepping closer. "Speak up, why don't you? Own up to your—"

"I SAID LIKE YOU DIDN'T DO THE SAME THING!" I explode, my voice raspy.

"Break it up!" demands Alice—she's angry, angrier than I'd have thought possible from her—but neither of us pays any mind.

Marlene lifts herself to her full height—she hadn't been expecting that reaction, from the looks of it, but it doesn't deter her. "All right, you want the whole house to hear about it, fine! I ran away from home last July because bloody Mum doesn't think I'm important enough for her to take custody of my orphaned mate, and Maggie went and told everyone because I'm not enough of a sister to her! And it sucks, but you don't see me taking it out on anyone, do you?"

"Right, because this conversation doesn't have _anything_ to do with you," I taunt.

"What it has to do with is that you can't treat my mates like shit just because you think it's all right to shag and drop—"

"ENOUGH!" roars Alice. We're startled into silence—Alice Abbott _never_ gets angry. "Black, lay off her! Marlene, _calm down_."

Mary says viciously, raising her voice, "Does it look like we're talking to you?" I glance around and realize belatedly that the entire common room is staring at us—so much for privacy.

Evans, looking shaken, ushers Marlene up to the girls' dormitory; Prongs and Wormtail, in turn, steer me up ours. "What was that all about, Padfoot?"

"I loathe all of them," I seethe, crossing my arms moodily. "Why did he have to join them? Why did Andy have to come here, anyway? I don't need a babysitter—"

"If that's how it's going to be every time you run into Regulus, you might," says Wormtail quietly. "Maybe you should talk to him—"

"That makes perfect sense, since we're estranged now and all," I mutter, picking at my bedspread.

They exchange a look; then Prongs says, "Just use the mirror when you're ready." I don't say goodbye when they leave.

I'm sure it's one of them again when the door opens next, so I'm shocked (but not surprised) to see Marlene swiftly locking the door and approaching my four-poster. She settles into my arms, somehow still rigid. "I miss you," she mumbles, abashed—apologetic.

"I miss Moony," I say, avoiding the subject, avoiding the look in her eyes. "Why does his mother have to be so bloody ill all the time?"

She stiffens even more. "You're an arse."

"I know it."

And then I'm shoving her beneath me and kissing her roughly and hoping she can hear my steady tattoo of apologies against her mouth: _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm_—

* * *

After last class, Andy's contempt during Thursday's class is tangible. While taking roll, she won't say my name; when she asks me where Moony is, it's with venom in her voice and a distinct frown. As I start scrawling out answers, the last thing I feel is her glare before she dives headfirst into a borrowed Pensieve to assess last week's duels.

Right then and there, I can tell the week's not going to end well. Potions the next morning doesn't go much better: Slughorn gleefully informs us that last week's partners will be permanent for the rest of the year, landing me with Marlene bloody McKinnon to deal with instead of Prongs. The way she keeps looking over at me when she should be watching the cauldron almost makes me want to break it off, just to be rid of her mood swings—almost.

My mood improves a little when Moony comes out of the Hospital Wing during the free period, but his usual optimism is dampened when he doesn't get an internship—and neither do I. "My bloody mum, I'll bet anything," I hiss as I read through my rejection letter. "The Ministry's right in the Blacks' pockets…"

The other Gryffindors' moods are equally lukewarm as we read through our results. "Tough luck, Padfoot, Moony," says Prongs bracingly, skimming a rather thick information packet. "Why the hell did they put me in Accidents and Catastrophes? I signed up for Games and Sports!"

"The Department of Magical Games and Sports had the most applicants, after the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," says Alice, flipping through the pages of her own packet. "I'm so excited—I made the Auror program!"

"That's wonderful, Alice—did you get in, Marlene?" asks Evans, glancing between the two girls. Marlene nods _yes_ and leans in to ask Alice about the program rigor.

Emmeline tosses her rejection letter into her pumpkin juice and slips Wormtail's letter out of his hands—he's too afraid to open it. Neatly slitting open the envelope, she reads the first lines of his packet silently and hands it back to him, saying, "Congratulations—Department of Magical Games and Sports. You'll be helping to set up the 1978 Quidditch World Cup."

Prongs stabs moodily at his pork chops. "I'm supposed to report to some junior minister, Cornelius Fudge—what kind of a name is _Fudge_, anyway? He heads the bloody _Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee_, for Merlin's sake!" Mary tries and fails to comfort him, as she's more preoccupied with her acceptance not into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures but the Department of Magical Transportation.

"What's yours in, Lily?" asks Moony politely. He's handling the news awfully well; though he's obviously disappointed, he hasn't complained since initially finding out.

"Oh—I got into International Magical Cooperation," she replies, smiling. "I'm shadowing a junior ambassador to France."

"If you run into any of my distant cousins, tell them I say hullo," I say moodily. Evans winces.

The girls are still mad at me for Wednesday, I assume from the dirty looks they occasionally give me throughout the day. I don't much care—I still have the Marauders, and Marlene forces them not to be hostile—but I'm still startled by Alice's outburst. Whatever happened to the peacemaking prefect who keeps everyone in line—never crosses the line herself?

"She's mad on McKinnon's behalf, mate," says Prongs wisely when I bring it up on the way to the Quidditch pitch for tryouts. "Girls are like that—they all stand up for each other. Screaming your brains out at her in front of half of Gryffindor House is going to rile her a little."

"I know, but this is _Abbott_ we're talking about," I say, gesturing wildly. "Whenever she catches us shagging, she just docks points and separates us, and that's the end of it…"

"You weren't shagging, you were rowing—nastily, too. I think she's right, Padfoot; you don't really—I mean, you shouldn't treat McKinnon like—" Words fail him, so he just clutches his Nimbus 1001 and sighs emphatically. (I glare at my inferior Cleansweep Four—that's all you get when you're a Black Sorted into Gryffindor.)

I snap, "Don't tell me how to treat my girlfriend, Prongs."

"Technically, what you do with her doesn't make her your girlfriend," Prongs points out as we reach the pitch. I scowl but don't say anything—we're late, and Gideon's already setting up the tryouts.

"Good, you made it," he says, jabbing his thumb behind him. "Find the group for your position—you want Chaser and Beater again?" We nod. "James, you're with Edgar's group; Sirius, to Edgar's left."

I join a gaggle of underclassmen—a few of the girls are ogling me, and I indulge them idly, flicking my hair back over my shoulder. Fabian meets my eyes from the group of hopeful Keepers and smirks.

"All right, I want you all to play against each other. Split yourselves up by age—the six youngest Chasers, the four youngest Beaters, and the two youngest Keepers and Seekers, and so forth—and then each age group will further divide into two teams and play a quick game. Youngest players first," announces Gideon, raising his voice.

There are seven of us Beaters—three second years, one fourth year, two fifth years, and me. The fourth year agrees to play twice, less from a desire to get two chances than from age-based obligation. "I was nervous enough just having to try out _once_," she complains, but I can barely believe that she's anything less than completely confident from the way she carries herself.

"Don't worry," advises one of the fifth years. "Nerves never get you on the team."

"And yet I've never seen _you_ play in a house match before," says the fourth year. I hold back a grin as the fifth year bristles indignantly.

The first game isn't very well played, though a few players do stand out. I can't help feeling glad when the fourth year is a particularly apt Beater, and one of the Chaser hopefuls is good, too—not that he stands a chance against the current team players, Gideon, Edgar Bones, and Prongs. Since we're short on Chasers, Gideon employs him to play another round, along with the fourth year Beater; she ends up on my team against the fifth years, but the Chaser isn't so lucky, playing only with Edgar of the three.

The more pretentious fifth year Beater isn't too good, but his quieter friend, to my dismay, is. I'm a little anxious—for the fourth year's sake, anyway—but from the smile Gideon shoots me at the end of our match, I myself have little to worry about.

Gideon gathers together the old team members at the end of tryouts and tells us quietly that we've all made it back on. "Too many second and third years who can barely stay upright on their broomsticks," he says, shaking his head. "We need a new Beater, though, since the last one graduated—it'll have to be one of the ones from your game, Sirius. Which ones did you think were good?"

I'm a little taken aback—Gideon isn't the sort of bloke who asks for anyone's advice. "The fourth year who played twice and the fifth year girl," I say promptly. "The fifth year bloke wasn't any good. I like the fourth year, personally, but—"

"She nearly knocked me off my broom," remarks Edgar, grinning ruefully. "Doesn't happen often. I can't think of her name—"

"Anna Moon," provides Meghan McCormack. "The fifth year was Ophelia Jones."

"Hestia's cousin?" asks Fabian, perking up. Meghan nods. "I'm tempted to give it to her. Unwritten rules and all—"

I cut in swiftly, "Unwritten rules be damned, Moon hit more Bludgers and you know it. We can always keep Jones on as a reserve."

"And that Chaser—Ryan Robins, was it? Train young blood for next year and that… Both reserves, then?" Gideon proposes, and we nod (though Fabian's a bit put out). "Right. I'll let them know… Sirius, a quick word first?"

Baffled, I nod and signal to Prongs that I'll catch up with him later. Fabian doesn't stay for this, though I catch him shooting Gideon a dirty look before departing. "Sirius," he says, his voice taking on the grave nobility that accompanies all his lectures (I start tapping my foot impatiently), "My fool of a brother found out from his girlfriend a few days ago who she chose as the new Slytherin Seeker."

I wait for it dully. "It's Regulus."

My foot stops tapping. "She picked that—"

"I thought you should know," says Gideon wearily, "so that you can prepare yourself for it. By all means, vent your aggression on your Bludgers, but if there's any foul play in our first game because of your family resentment—"

"I'll watch myself," I say dully, turning to go. "Thanks—for telling me."

I'm not looking forward to playing on the team this year nearly as much anymore.

* * *

A/N: I'd like to dedicate this chapter to my three most dedicated reviewers: **Purpleabsofsteel**, **thatchesirecat**, and **Eilea**. Thanks so much for all your feedback and support—and that goes for anyone who's ever reviewed or added this story to favorites/alerts, too.


	12. September 11th: Marlene McKinnon

**September 11****th****: Marlene McKinnon**

_You leave to meet him in the kitchens for a six o'clock breakfast; only after the first quarter-hour of waiting you know he's probably forgotten, and you're halfway through helping yourself by the time he gets around to showing up._

_It doesn't take much to push down the building disappointment and act upon the sudden swell of happy surprise. Even though you know Alice is right about him, you can't help thinking he's the best you'll ever do, or that his less-than-best is barely, just barely, good enough._

_Sirius Black is anything but ordinary, you decide (again) as he casually clasps your hand under the table and flashes a trademark Gryffindor smile, overriding your attempts at conversation. You can only imagine the kind of man he might have been—you like to think that he's done the best he can, because then at least he has some sort of moral compass, even if you don't apply._

_He won't talk about it when you ask between forkfuls of eggs, but Maggie's told you enough that most of your questions have already been answered. Still, you'd prefer to hear from him about the night his parents found his motorbike and his brother talked with some Death Eaters, because then at least you'd know that he wanted you to hear it._

_So you grit your teeth and remind yourself that this is what you've always wanted, that Black isn't simple, and you suck it up and try not to remember that he only agreed to this for the quick broom closet shag you allow him after._

_There's so much more you give than you'll ever get with him._

_As usual, he straightens his robes and leaves without a word, and you push back the urge to nick a Firewhiskey from his stash because Merlin, McKinnon, it's only seven in the bloody morning and you have an internship to get to in two hours, pull yourself together, woman, he's only a boy._

_(Only he's every time you've ever felt alive, and he's everything wrong when you look in the mirror…)_

_(Later that day at Auror training, you make it through combat testing with flying colors but are thrown out of the program after your character assessment. You're not surprised._)

* * *

The next half-week passes fairly uneventfully. J is back to following Lily around like a lost puppy, though with more determination, humor, and occasional sexual innuendo than a dog could ever convey, and she's actually letting him—almost like she did last summer, but there's always that same sad color in her eyes now. And then there are the rumors—do people ever tire of them? Thanks to my common room row with Black, the entire castle knows about more than I would like: Maggie starting the rumors, both of us leaving home, the shagging. At least word hasn't gotten out we've been doing it since fourth year; in the wizarding world, that would be the kind of scandal that I don't have the patience to put up with (it's bad enough that we're only sixteen—younger than the legal age).

Then, of course, there's the fact that I didn't pass Auror testing, always a fun thing to hear discussed throughout the corridors.

Alice has been trying to act normal since her outburst, refusing to explain herself whenever I bring it up, and Mary, surprisingly, is hanging around us a lot more than the Hufflepuffs—I reckon Veronica Smethley's finally gone too far. In exchange for her company, though, Em's started spending most of her time with Maggie—I don't blame _her_ for what Maggie did, but Lily, apparently, does. It must have been something she said—there's _always_ something Em said.

The Marauders are just as close-knit as ever—so much so, in fact, that they won't give Black one moment to get away. I reckon I'm supposed to be grateful for that, but I'm not.

Wednesday, though, breaks the routine we've fallen into. Herbology is a pain, of course—but instead of Catchlove and Smethley, Mary wants us to work with Alice and Cattermole, a nice change. I can't say I'm fond of Cattermole—he's a little, well, _wimpy_—but he's still much better than the likes of the other Hufflepuffs Mary's so fond of. And Alice, though something of an annoying goody-goody at times, is still a Gryffindor—almost like family, not that I can say much for mine.

Though we're at times distracted by the looks J and Pete intermittently give us from across the room (their partner, Benjy Fenwick, is clearly not amused), Alice keeps the four of us on task—and thank bloody Merlin for that, since I probably couldn't survive class without her. However, it's the end of class that catches my interest, a lot more than Cattermole's meek ramblings or staring at Mary—as we pack up to leave after the bell rings, Sprout holds me back, specifically sending Mary and Alice on without me. "McKinnon," she says unceremoniously (is that a hint of pity in her voice?), "the Headmaster asked me to send you to his office after class. Password's 'Cauldron Cake'."

I'm startled for a moment—he couldn't possibly have heard…? "But what—"

"Well, go on, then, don't keep Professor Dumbledore waiting," instructs Sprout, waving me out of the greenhouse. "Go on!"

I shove the curious Veronica Smethley out of my way as I catch up to Alice and Mary (Pete and J have gone on ahead to find the other two Marauders). "Dumbledore wants to see me," I say in a low voice, fully aware that the Hufflepuff girls are trying to eavesdrop.

"_Dumbledore_?" repeats Mary, stricken. "But not about…"

"Maybe. I dunno," I snap, suddenly touchy. "I'd better go on my own; it must be personal, if Sprout didn't want anyone to know I'm going to see him. Don't wait for me, yeah? Could be a while."

Quickening my pace, I leave them behind as we reach the castle and direct a hasty "shove off" to Smethley—I don't have the patience to deal with her just now. I hardly feel myself rising the stairs to the second floor and approaching the stone gargoyle that guards Dumbledore's office: my attention is more concerned with the looks I attract as I push my way through the corridors. Damned Black.

Thankfully, the hall outside the Headmaster's office is a safe haven—students, for obvious reasons, tend to avoid it. "Cauldron Cake," I snarl, panting—the gargoyle lets me in, but not without grazing my shoulder as I brush past it.

I hesitate before knocking—I can hear voices from outside the door. "—don't see why you think this is any different," says Dumbledore's guest—male, from the sounds of it. "Not even _Slytherin_ respects her authority—how can you expect the rest of the school to?"

"Perhaps, Mr. Prewett, the problem lies not with Miss Meadowes's views but with the rest of the school's," answers, unmistakably, Dumbledore. "Your brother, I have heard, has gotten along quite well with her—learn to do the same."

Gideon Prewett, then, apparently complaining about Dorcas Meadowes. No surprises there. "But Professor—"

I choose this moment to knock, loudly enough that they'll have to notice. There's a brief stretch of silence, then the sound of footsteps—Gideon flings the door open and leaves in a huff, leaving me alone with the Headmaster. "Good morning, Miss McKinnon," he greets me, indicating a squashy armchair opposite his desk that Gideon must have been sitting in. "Please, take a seat."

I remember my anxiety and take slow steps across the office. "Good morning, sir," I reply, cringing inside at the hard note in my voice. "You wanted to see me?"

"Ah, yes," says Dumbledore with a small sigh. "I don't mean to pry, Miss McKinnon, but please, tell me—what reasons did your Healer cite for rejecting you from the Auror training program after your character assessment?"

Deflating a little—I should have known it wouldn't be about Black—I say sullenly, "She said I'm too rash to make effective decisions, and my distrust of my peers and condescension of my presumed inferiors hinders my ability to cooperate for a common goal."

He just smiles again, and I add in a muttered rush, "And I lack the confidence and self-esteem necessary to be a proper leader."

Dumbledore's smile, at least, falters at this. "Though many a rumor has reached the staff room about your personal affairs," he admits (to my surprise), "I will not ask you to change yourself or your doings for the good of the Ministry. What was it about the Auror program that allured you?"

"The war," I say immediately—I don't need to think this one out. "I want to fight. My best friend's a Muggle-born—"

"Miss Macdonald, I presume?" I nod but don't trust myself to speak. He heaves another sigh and leans in from across the desk. "Miss McKinnon, I have not brought this to your attention until today because I believe that students here at Hogwarts should not be exposed to the battlefronts of war, but given what would have been expected of you in your internship, I feel that this conversation is not much of a stretch. Aurors are not the only wizards equipped and ready to defend their beliefs, and to that end, I have spent the past few months constructing a small group of friends and colleagues to aid the war effort against Lord Voldemort. Now, you must understand that you would not be allowed to join until after your graduation from Hogwarts—"

There's a flash of recognition at his words. _A small group of friends and colleagues to aid the war effort…_ Doc's organization. "I'll do it," I say simply—he doesn't know about my father. "I want to start now."

Dumbledore clasps his hands together and pulls back. "I'd like to give you the next two years to consider my offer and know that your skill can still be put to use. Until you receive your diploma, though, I'm afraid my offer is inactive."

He rises—I'm bursting to say more, but he's made it clear that the conversation is over. "If you could not mention this conversation to anyone…"

"Right," I comply, nodding and turning to go. "Right, of course."

True to my word, I don't mention it to anyone, not even Alice or Mary—not even Lily, whom I've already told about Doc's… extracurricular activities. But the secret eats at me all day, to the point that Pete—_Pete_!—pulls me aside after dinner, locking us together in an empty classroom outside the Great Hall.

"I don't know what the girls think," he starts anxiously, "but even though Padfoot tries to ignore you, Prongs thinks it's a good idea to let him, and Moony doesn't want to muck around in anyone's love life—something's been off with you all day. I can tell."

I push past him and cross the room, my hand leaping into my pocket to grip my wand. "Thanks for the concern, Pete, but I'm fine—well, no less fine today than any other day this week."

"You've been a bit grouchy but otherwise normal. Today—you're jumpy. Rattled, almost," Pete argues—perceptive little blighter, that boy is.

"I'm not rattled," I say smoothly.

Pete is unconvinced. "Padfoot didn't do anything stupid, did he?"

Sighing wearily, I resign myself to tell him the truth—at least enough of it that he'll let go of his suspicions about Black. "Look, Pete, it's nothing really—just—Dumbledore called me down to his office today to talk about the Ministry thing."

"The Ministry—oh. That," mumbles Pete, eyeing the ground. "That must have been…"

"Yeah. It wasn't a big deal, it just—threw me a little," I say vaguely, moving back toward the door. "Don't worry about me, all right?" He nods his compliance, but something about the way he looks at me gives me a moment longer of pause. "Pete—thanks for noticing."

He shrugs and escorts me out, closing the door behind us with a snap. "Anytime."

By the following morning, I've relaxed enough that Pete doesn't give me any suspicious looks over the breakfast table, and it's not with anxiety but with interest that I join the other Gryffindors in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Black looks almost nervous at the sight of his cousin as she sweeps into the classroom, but I don't bother trying to calm him—he'll just tell me off for it, anyway.

Tonks heads straightaway to her desk, rummaging through papers. "The past two classes have been enlightening for me," she begins, pulling out a thick stack of files and starting to pass out their contents, "and I thank you for your patience and effort during the review. I have here your corrected written examinations and commentary on your ability and technique from last fortnight's duel. For those of you who earned Outstanding O.W.L.s, I ask you only to continue to progress above and beyond and consider my advice guidance, not corrective action. For a few of you who did not—" I notice her looking straight in Alice's eyes as she hands her a file "—based on what I've seen, the proctors may have gotten it wrong."

I flip open my file upon receiving it and look first to the red marks at the top of the page: _Week 1—Outstanding; Week 2—Exceeds Expectations_. Ah, well, I've never been one for essays. Before I can more than skim Tonks's comments, though, she speaks again. "From what I've seen, there's a huge discrepancy between each of your skills—in a lot of cases, two people who earned the same mark know none of the other's expertise; in others, one student is far more experienced than another. Though structured lessons would be easier to teach, it seems only appropriate that we continue class in an independent fashion, so that everyone will be brought to the same level and caught-up students don't waste time on needless review.

"In the back of your file, you'll find a study schedule for this term, listing the spells, concepts, and theories I'd like you to master in the next few months. Review of past spells will be necessary in some cases, and you'll have to work at a faster pace than you'd like to finish the work in time—but to be fair, more advanced students will also be covering additional topics and forced to work at that same pace. By the end of term, you will all be practiced in the content of your O.W.L.s and have learned a shared core curriculum—some of you, though, will have continued into next term's work if you begin more advanced. Textbook pages are referenced under each item to help you along, so be sure to consult your textbooks _thoroughly_ before asking for my help—you will have to work for the answers before I provide them."

We're not all skilled at Defense, and I can see some of my classmates' dismay—Pete certainly looks nervous, Mary incredulous, though Em barely bats an eye. Black is perhaps the most upset of all—though this has more to do with Tonks herself than her lesson plans. J seems far too excited about the whole thing, and Lily and Alice—let's just say that the unsuccessfully hidden competition between them is tangible.

This should be fun.

"Partners are listed by the week in your schedules: since you'll all be learning different spells in different orders, I've paired you off so that at least two people are studying the same concept each week, and the odd one out will either study from the book or work with me for that week," says Tonks authoritatively, clapping her hands. "You'd best get started now—you'll need the time. To that end, please wait until after class to read your comments in full; until then, consult my notes on the magic you'll be studying today."

I flip to the back of my file and consult _Week 3_: I've been assigned to work with Lily. My eyes briefly meet Black's, then flick hastily to Lily's—relief sets in, but not before I feel the telltale disappointment.

It feels good to work with Lily: I haven't had proper one-on-one time with her since we lived together last summer, apart from ten minutes at the start of one Potions class before Slughorn split us up. We're just reading today, so I cast a quick _Muffliato_ and take my chance to talk to her privately. "How've you been holding up?" I ask, flipping open my textbook.

Lily puts a hand to her temple and closes her eyes, resting her elbow on the desk. "I'm all right," she says finally, starting to read. "Starting school was rough—all those rumors… but it's sunken in, all of it. My parents—" she swallows thickly "—I miss them, but they'd want me to move on with my life."

"You're making a brilliant effort," I encourage her, smiling a little. "People have been all right to you? Apart from Maggie and the Hufflepuffs, the prats…"

Laughing, Lily reads another paragraph or two before answering—always on task, that one. "It's not _just_ the Hufflepuffs—Paul Patil's a Ravenclaw, you know. And some of the Hufflepuffs are decent; Elisabeth Clearwater and Benjy Fenwick are all right, and your own brother—"

"I maintain that they're all prats," I say airily, turning a page but not really reading. "As are the Slytherins, and some of the Ravenclaws—everyone but us, really."

"And you wonder why people don't like you," she mutters, grinning at me.

I roll my eyes but don't complain. "You've been hanging around J a lot lately—any particular reason for that?"

Lily shrugs, tucking her hair behind her ears. "He made me talk to him—we were in his dormitory for, er, a Transfiguration essay—and I just figured, what's the use in ignoring him? It won't change what he knows, or what he did."

I know a secret when I see one. "What did he do again?" I say carefully, training my eyes to my book.

"He…" She trails off, shaking her head, and resumes reading.

"Lily," I say quietly, even though there's no need because of _Muffliato_, "we're lucky that Maggie didn't tell everything—about which Auror we stayed with, about Doc being my father and not my uncle—if it weren't for what little sense of empathy she has, everyone in this school would know that you went missing for three days before you came to Doc's flat. I saw the way you were looking at him when he showed up at the funeral, and I know he was staying at your parents' place when—it happened, so just… talk to me about it. What happened between you and J in the three days before you showed up?"

It's a full two minutes before she answers—I'd started to think that she wouldn't, so it catches me off guard. "Tuney kicked us out," she finally says, her voice eerily steady. "I didn't want to face Doc and the Aurors yet, so he took me to his place—his parents would have found out anyway, with the wedding cancelled, so I didn't mind them knowing—and I stayed in his room and wouldn't come out. He brought me meals; he brought over my things from the house and worked out funeral arrangements with Tuney… I wouldn't let him leave the room at night, so we shared a bed. He made me leave after three days of it because I…" Lily trails off for a moment, shaking her head from side to side "…well, his mum saw me taking the pill and got the wrong idea."

"The pill?" My voice cracks because of the context of our conversation, but I'm genuinely confused as to what she's talking about.

"Er, you know… the pill. For my time of the month," Lily stammers, blushing. "She's a Healer and has to know about Muggle medication, so she recognized it—she thought Potter was trying to take advantage of me and made me leave."

"_Was_ that the wrong idea?" I can't help asking.

Lily colors even further but still scowls. "Don't be ridiculous, Marlene; I had more dignity than that, even then. Oh, no, I didn't mean—" she adds, glancing at me.

I turn a little pink myself but wave it off. "Different situations. Don't worry about it." I give her a second to collect herself before asking, "Does he know about the will?"

"Potter?" She leaves it hanging, and I know how she's going to answer. "No."

Defense Against the Dark Arts entirely forgotten, I rest my elbows on my copy of _Confronting the Faceless_ and bury my face in my hands.

Black brushes past me on his way out the door after class and says in my ear, "Fifteen minutes, ground floor closet." Like a puppet on a string, I nod and meet him there.

Maggie finds me by chance, after, and collects me—the whole ordeal feels more clinical than sisterly. She Vanishes the broken bottles and heaves me onto her shoulder and helps me into the Ravenclaw Common Room, then into her empty dormitory. "This one's my bed," she directs me, not that I need her to tell me after so-many-times, and I curl up on the mattress and cry into the pillow and wish that I were back home with my cot and crowded bedroom, squeezing myself into an eight-person, four-bedroom ranch, not living in a castle with luxury bedding and spending holidays on the couch in my secret father's bachelor pad and sneaking off to Helene's Manor and its silk sheets…

"I said what I said," professes Maggie through my drunken haze, "because I'm sick of the secrecy. Mum may act like you're second-rate, but you're not, and someone needs to show you _why_ you're not—that's not going to happen if you keep acting like everyone's fine at home. You're not, Doc's not, Lily's not—"

"You should have left Lily out of this," I sniff—apart from the staggering and tears, I'm holding my firewhisky well. "If you want to destroy _me_, that's one thing."

Maggie retorts, flaring up, "I don't want to destroy you. But you needed a wake-up call, both of you did—now just you, I bet." I try to argue, but she cuts me off: "Be honest, Marlene; how many times have you slept with Black since school started?"

"One… two… three…" I tally, counting blurrily on my fingers, "four… five… Five. Maybe—maybe six? Five or six."

"That's five or six too many times," Maggie informs me frankly, scooting in a little closer (I don't notice until now that she's sitting at the foot of the bed). "Are you trying to get pregnant or something?"

I roll my eyes—it's exaggerated from the liquor. "There's spells to prevent—"

"Save it. I don't want to know," interrupts Maggie, holding up a hand in a clear message to stop. "My sister is—"

"Half-sister," I remind her drowsily—the room starts spinning; the alcohol is sinking in.

"My _half-sister_ is better than Sirius Black, so you'd better start acting like it," she says strictly, leaning in close.

I smile and limply grab her hand. "You're bossy," I say lucidly, just before I nod off to sleep.

The next thing I know, someone's taken me back to Gryffindor Tower, and I have a massive headache and an empty stomach, which is a blessing in that I don't have to worry about possible effects of my nausea. I moan and sit up—I'm haphazardly strewn beneath one thin sheet, the others stripped down and fallen around the bed.

"Welcome back," comes a serene voice—Em's. "Lie down. Margaret brought you to me," she explains when I start to ask.

Oh, Maggie—she always means well but has funny ways of showing it. "Did I miss lunch?"

"Yes." It's clean and direct, no-nonsense—not much empathy, either, much like Em herself. "Mary is getting something from the kitchens for you."

"I'm not hungry." My stomach chooses this moment to roar indignantly. "At least, I don't think I can hold anything down."

"You're within your rights to wait before eating," Em informs me. She's perusing _Unfogging the Future_ again—her love of (and talent at) Divination is more than a little unnerving.

I say, as coolly as I can while feeling this ill, "I'll wait, then."

The waiting is longer than I thought—by the time Mary comes up with a plate of lunch, I'm more than ready to scarf it down, nausea forgotten. "Thanks, Mare," I say, gulping down water.

"No problem," she replies, shrugging. "How do you feel?"

"Bad," I mumble through a mouthful of salad. "Where is everyone?"

"Oh, erm… Alice is, like, waiting for Longbottom to get out of Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Lily's with James," says Mary, handing me a napkin.

I nod, then furrow my brows as I glance around the background: "Where'd Em go?"

She's nowhere to be found—Mary seems just as surprised as I am. "Yeah, well, Em's always been a little, like, _out there_," she dismisses, closing the hangings around my bed and brushing a bit of hair from my forehead. "It's weird, isn't it? We include Em in things she doesn't even care about, but Lily was always, like, the one we didn't like—"

"I always liked Lily," I say stoutly—thanks to something Mary must have slipped into the salad dressing, my headache is fast dissipating. "It's Snape that was the problem, and Lily was never seen without him—"

"We saw her without him," murmurs Mary, shaking her head; her straggly hair whips at her face with the movement. "In classes, in the dorm. I know you, like, think she's your best mate now—"

I spew (potentially spiked) salad back out onto the plate. "We went through shit together last summer, that's all! Even before that, I was mates with her—I invited her to stay the summer with me, didn't I?"

"You told me the night after you asked her that, like, it was only out of pity," she reminds me, not meeting my eyes. "That day at the café, at Alice's house—you weren't very interested in her _then_."

"So you're jealous, then?" I accuse, my voice rising.

"That's not even the half of it, Lene," says Mary—as unnervingly quiet as before. "Yeah, it was a shock when you came back last fortnight attached at the hip to a girl you never even liked, but you won't even, like, admit that you used to be anything _but_ best mates. That's selective memory for you."

"So what are you saying?" I demand, lunch forgotten.

Mary looks melancholy enough to make me nervous. "I'm saying that if you were as close to Lily as you act, then, like, you'd at least be honest about what you used to think of her. Merlin, Lene, does anyone at all mean enough to you for you to be honest with them? Do _I_?"

Something hot and shameful starts to bubble up in the pit of my stomach. "C'mon, Mare, you know it's not like that."

"Sure it's not," says Mary—she's gone starkly emotionless, rising from her perch on my bed. "And you think I'm more than just a shallow gossip to get your news from, and, like, you don't judge me by my mates in Hufflepuff, and you don't care that I dye my hair blonde or talk like I'm thick or…"

I don't know what to say to this, so I scrutinize her for a moment and chew tastelessly on some lettuce. "Your roots are getting a bit long," I say finally, for lack of anything better.

She twirls a lock of hair around her finger, her eyes hardening. "Let them get long," she decides, opening the hangings to leave. "Or would you feel better about yourself if I didn't?"


	13. September 17th: Lily Evans

**September 17****th****: Lily Evans**

It's only two and a half weeks into the school year, but I'm starting to loathe Fridays. They start with the always-awkward double Potions with the Slytherins—there's only so much James can do to take my mind off of Severus's cold apathy—and though it's followed by a long break, History of Magic after isn't much better. It's hard enough to pay attention to Binns's lectures without James's conversational attempts and Amelia's resulting annoyance, both of which I got an earful of last class. Perhaps I'd ordinarily at least appreciate the start of the weekend after class, but this week, there's no such luck: with Slughorn's party planned for this Saturday evening, I can only dread another day of avoiding the Slytherins.

So my greeting to Professor Slughorn is less than cheerful as Alice and I escort Marlene to class—in yet another exercise in helping her avoid Black, Alice partners her straightaway, and I save the seat beside mine for James. "You said something about talking to Maggie?" I ask, just to break the silence—though I'm anxiously watching the door, resting my chin in my hand and leaning on the desk.

"Oh—yeah," says Marlene, stretching. "She, er, found me after I was with Black yesterday—oh, stop looking at me like that, I'm not going to try and talk to him after what happened!"

"Maybe, but _he'll_ still try to talk to _you_," points out Alice. She still hasn't gotten over the fight in the common room and is easily set off by any mention of the two of them together.

Marlene shrugs, hunching over her desk. "Well, I'm not going to let him this time," she mutters, but she doesn't sound all that determined to me.

As the four Slytherins step through the doorway, I give a small start, then glance down and start chewing on my pinky nail. "What is it, Lily?" says Alice, but she catches on when Marlene nudges her side and discreetly inclines her head.

Only Damocles Belby acknowledges us with a curt nod and clipped smile; we smile, mumble, and (in my case) break a nail in uncomfortable response. Severus tosses his books lazily next to Belby's and gives me only a cursory glance.

I try to look away but can't help watching him out the corner of my eye.

"What did you say you'll be doing for your internship this weekend, Lily?" prompts Alice, if only to distract me. I turn to her, deer-in-the-headlights. "Just learning more French?"

"_Peut-être, mademoiselle, vous êtes assez_… er… ugh, I haven't learned how to say 'insightful' yet," I say in a thick British accent. Marlene sniggers; Alice sociably giggles. "It's not like I can do much else for a junior ambassadorship to France without learning the language first, right? But it takes so long to get fluent that they might just send me over with a translator knowing a few basic phrases…" I muse at an afterthought.

The Slytherins are stonily silent, but the volume of background chatter is rising—the Marauders must not be far from the classroom. "At least you still _have_ an internship," says Marlene moodily, stabbing at her desktop with the edge of her (fast blunting) quill.

Alice purses her lips, then says sympathetically, "Don't worry about it, Marlene—at least you were considered for it, right? Half the sixth years didn't even get one, let alone the ones they wanted."

"At least half the sixth years didn't get turned down because of their _character assessments_," Marlene complains. "They've got to get better proctors in for that; you know they called me insecure?"

"Well—" But Alice never finishes the thought, as the boys choose this moment to burst into the classroom. Black makes as though to ask Marlene why she deviated from last week's seating chart, but Lupin steers him away, shooting an apologetic look over his shoulder.

James, on the other hand, plops his books down next to mine and takes his seat, grinning. "Beautiful morning, isn't it, Lily?"

"It's overcast, Potter; it'll probably rain," I remark instead of agreeing, rummaging through my bag and sneaking a glance at Severus. He's absorbed in a conversation with Belby—or, rather, Belby's telling him something in earnest to which Severus doesn't seem to be paying attention. (Was our friendship like that, a one-sided effort?)

"_Rain_ is beautiful," James argues. I leave it at that, my eyes still trained to Severus's table—like always, James notices. "It's not worth it, Lily," he says, quieter now, resting a hand on my shoulder.

I straighten up, nodding, and feel grateful that the bell rings and Slughorn closes the door with a snap. "Cauldrons out!" he says merrily, winking at me on his walk to the blackboard. "And partner up!"

"Ready for this?" James asks with a telling hint of mischief in his voice. His hand drops to mine from my shoulder; I clasp it in a death grip, then quickly let go, all the while not meeting his eyes.

Severus still won't look my way.

James fills the class asking after the other girls and me and doesn't mention Severus again until after, while we're putting away our cauldrons. "You were staring at him again," he says, lowering his voice—I don't bother playing dumb.

"Why shouldn't I? He was my best mate—"

"Past tense," says James gently, scooping up his books and extending a hand. I take it, training my eyes to his and not entirely suppressing a half-smile. "About time for you to go get a new one, don't you think?"

I watch him dubiously as he holds the door open for me and bows me out of the classroom. "C'mon, let's hear the contenders. I trust that I've made the list?"

"Fat chance, Potter," I tease, giving up and letting the grin fully slide onto my face. "Marlene, maybe, after everything."

"I thought she was thick with Macdonald," says James, furrowing his eyebrows.

I heave the slipping strap of my bag back up to the crook of my neck. "She can have two best mates, can't she? Anyway, she and Mary had some kind of a row last night; they won't say what about…"

He shrugs and drops the matter. "Reckon we should catch up with the others, give Abbott some backup with the whole Padfoot thing?"

I don't have to ask what he means. "You're sure you're not just lonely for the boys' company?" I say instead, smiling.

"Believe me, Lily," says James in earnest, stopping me right there in the corridor and taking my hands, "I'm not lonely."

It's hardly eleven o'clock, and the pink is already rising in my cheeks. _Fridays_…

The other Gryffindors have already congregated in the common room—well, some of them. "Mary's been off promoting inter-house unity all morning," Black informs us before we have a chance to ask. "Not with the Hufflepuffs, though; she said something about finding Carol Davies."

"Em's been off with Maggie somewhere, and Marlene left to find them just now—they made up yesterday, she told me," adds Alice. "Besides, she doesn't really want Mary to find her if she comes back…"

"Or Padfoot," finishes Pettigrew. Black fumes, reddening. "What? Elephant in the room got your tongue?"

James leans in and asks me what Pettigrew's on about, only in more vulgar terms. "Muggle idioms," I answer in an undertone, shaking my head—_boys_.

"If that's all," announces Alice, getting up, "I'd better get going—Herbology essay. I'll be in the library, if you need me for anything."

"Wait." I interject as she gathers her books—she glances back at me, eyebrows raised inquisitively. "You're leaving me alone here with _these_ four? The famed Marauders? Pranksters of legend and all that?"

"I'm sorry, Lily; if you'd rather lend me a hand in a class you dropped…" I shake my head, and Alice shoots me one last sympathetic look before waving goodbye to the lot and departing.

Biting my lip, I take Alice's armchair and leave James to share the sofa with the others. It's a bit awkward, at least at first—other than the full moon, I've barely spoken to any of them but James all year. Struck by sudden inspiration, I speak up: "Oh, Lupin, I've been meaning to ask if you'd like to go to Slughorn's party with me—consider it my apology for the, er, wedding debacle."

Lupin smiles but shakes his head. "Thanks, Lily, but I can't—I'm already going with Padfoot. Tradition, you know—Prongs is taking Wormtail, too."

"Oh. Right," I say—though I don't recall this, since I never paid much attention to the other Gryffindors at the Slug Club before now. "I shouldn't have put it off until the last minute like this, but I don't know too many blokes…"

"Well, there's Alexander Zeller," says James, ticking off a finger. "Ravenclaw. Bit of a git, but that's only to be expected, he's mates with Paul Patil—"

Pettigrew joins in, eyes twinkling. "Belby and McLaggen are invited, so they've probably already found someone… Longbottom's taking Alice, Mary could get offended if you ask Cattermole… Benjy Fenwick, maybe?"

"No, he's going with Elisabeth Clearwater," I sigh. Why hadn't I done this earlier and spared myself the embarrassment?

"There's always Mary's pool of ex-boyfriends," suggests Black disparagingly. "Diggory, Gudgeon, Lockhart—"

"Oh, Merlin, anyone but Lockhart," I moan.

I almost miss the fleeting glance that Black and James exchange before Black turns to me abruptly. "All right, Evans, you can have Moony," he says gravely. "I can make… other arrangements."

"What arrangements?" I say suspiciously, but Black's already hopping off the sofa and darting out of the common room, a none-too-innocent smirk plastered across his face. "Who are you taking, Black?"

"Put it out of your mind, Lily, it's a surprise," says James, grinning. "Just wait until tomorrow evening…"

I try and fail to fully take his advice, but the conversation is distracting enough. "What ended up happening with the wedding, Evans?" says Pettigrew. "I mean, I know you don't like to bring it up, but—did your sister end up getting married?"

"Yeah, she eloped in Gretna Green a week after the funeral," I reply bitterly. "Didn't even tell me she had done—I found out from the would-be maid of honor when she wanted an ear to complain into."

"Bully for her, then," says Lupin half sarcastically.

I twist my lips and nod—we're approaching dangerous territory. "You're _sure_ you can't tell me whom Black's taking to the party?"

They keep tight-lipped, all the way through History of Magic and the end of the evening. "Less than a day left, Lily," says James, ruffling my hair as he bids me goodnight. "Try and get some rest, yeah? Internships tomorrow morning."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," I say distractedly—I'm halfway through proofreading an Arithmancy essay and could do without any interruptions. "'Night, James."

I don't realize my mistake for another thirty seconds, when I realize that James is hovering over my armchair, his breathing shallow. "What?" I ask anyway, just to downplay its significance.

"You called me—you never—" A satisfied grin slides over his face. "Slip of the tongue?"

"Something akin to that."

"So that's how you think of me." He's so sure of himself that it doesn't even sound like an assumption, let alone a question. "I was wondering how soon you'd come around."

I brush my hair out of my eyes and take a proper look at him. "Why the fanfare?"

James takes a seat across from me, propping his feet up on the coffee table between us. "Remember when you stayed over at my place for a few days last summer—"

"—After the concert, because we Flooed to the anteroom of your Muggle study and I wanted to browse," I finish for him, smiling faintly.

"I was bothering you about how you were—different with me than with everyone else," he goes on reminiscently, "how you weren't yourself when Marlene tried to get you to open up with the others… you were completely disinterested. Remember that?"

It takes a second, but the memory comes back to me. "Why were you so happy about my reaction?" I say—I know him well enough now to feel comfortable asking.

He closes his eyes, and his smile widens. "Same reason as for this," James says, now looking at me straight. "You're not just some petty teenage drama queen playing mind games—this is real."

"This?"

"Us."

I bite back the urge to scoff. "There isn't an 'us'," I tell him, mostly believing it.

He stands, that smile still playing about his lips, and kisses the top of my head gently. "You say that now."

As I tell James off for inappropriate displays of unwanted affection, it occurs to me that this is the first time I've thought fondly of the summer. I let him off the hook halfway through my tirade—just this once.

Up in the dormitory, I drain the last of my Dreamless Sleep Potion and hope that it's enough to get me through the night.

* * *

Wholly giving up the act, I greet James as "James" at breakfast on Saturday morning, which he returns with a nonchalant "Lily". The girls, even Emmeline, stare; Mary drops the box of Common Welsh Greens she's midway through passing to me. Snatching it back up and letting the milk drain from the bottom—it landed right in Lupin's bowl of cereal—I give them significant "I'll-tell-you-later" looks and hope desperately that I won't actually have to explain it, since I can't entirely explain it to myself.

Today's internship passes in a flurry of French lessons and promises that I'll make a trip to the British Embassy by the end of the fall term. "It's only September; you have plenty of time. _C'est seulement septembre; vous avez trop de temps—repetez et conjuguez, s'il vous plaît_," instructs my linguist, and I don't dare protest when she's using _that_ tone of voice.

At half past seven, Lupin meets me in the common room, dressed in a shabby pair of dress robes and shifting from foot to foot. "Lily," he greets, albeit a little awkwardly. "You look lovely."

"Thanks, Lupin," I say, silently disagreeing: as I don't own my own dress robes, I've thrown on a spare pair of Alice's for the occasion, and it's easy to see why she didn't choose to wear these ones tonight.

He smiles slightly. "It's Remus, remember? Or Rem, or—"

"Lupe, yes, like Marlene calls you," I finish for him. The awkwardness is easing, to my relief, and we're both sporting grins. "Are we waiting for the other Marauders, then?"

"No, actually—Wormtail and Prongs are cutting it close to avoid mingling with the Slytherins as best as they can, and Padfoot… wants to make an entrance," Lupin trails off. I raise my eyebrows but know that he won't explain. "Were you planning on going in with Alice?"

I consider it. "I suppose we should—I didn't mention it to her, but Frank can't escort her out; he doesn't have access to our common room."

Accepting this, Lupin retires to an armchair, and I follow suit. I wonder if the wedding has been on his mind—it's been on mine. "How are prefect duties going?" I ask, if only to pass the time: I haven't a clue what else I could say.

"Oh, all right," he says vaguely. "I'm patrolling with Hestia Jones—seventh year Hufflepuff, rejected Head Girl candidate? You must have heard of her…" I nod, recalling a certain conversation after a game of Quidditch last June. "We've had our first meeting already, too; just, you know, reporting any points we've added or deducted and detentions we've given, signing up for patrols, planning the first Hogsmeade trip… officially, I'm not supposed to tell you this, but we're debating between the weekends of the second and the sixteenth of October, so keep your schedule clear."

"Not like there's anything to schedule but Hogsmeade," I laugh. "I'd tell Mary the dates—she's planning on going with Cattermole the next time there's a visit—but word would get out if I did, no offense to her, and I don't want you to get in trouble…"

"Reginald Cattermole? From Hufflepuff?" Lupin asks. "Huh…"

I grin. "Bit of a shift from what's always been her type, but he could be good for her, I think. He's a nice bloke."

"You'd better not be talking about Frank and me," comes a voice from the stairwell—Alice. Lupin and I turn in our seats to greet her; she's decked in a much prettier pair of robes and has curled her hair for the occasion. "Thanks for waiting, Lily—you didn't have to."

"Oh, I don't mind," I assure her, getting up, and it's true; Alice and I have our differences, but she makes for nice company outside the classroom.

We walk down to Slughorn's office together, detouring to meet Frank on the way—he greets Alice with a half-hug and is quick to let go, to her visible disappointment. At the party, Slughorn is in his element: though no outside guests have been invited, he seems to have coerced most Slug Club members into attending, and the room is packed with students alone. "Good evening, Frank, Alice, Lily—just the wizards I was hoping to see! Happy to have you here, Lupin," he adds, less enthusiastically, and I feel for Lupin a pang of something like indignation.

"He's with me, of course, Professor," I say, feeling suddenly bold, and step closer to Lupin's side. "You've no idea how much convincing it took to get Black to give him up for me! He's quite the catch, Remus is, don't you think?"

Slughorn looks taken aback only for a moment, then breaks into a smile. "You're a cheeky one, aren't you?" he laughs. "Well, go on, then, I'll leave you to it… Abbott, Longbottom, would you care for some crystallized pineapple?"

I tug Lupin through the doors before he's realized what's happened, but when he does ten paces later, he flashes me a grin. "Thanks for that, Lily. I owe you one."

"Don't mention it," I insist, waving over his shoulder—James and Pettigrew have just arrived.

"Hi, Moony, Evans," Pettigrew says; James sidles up behind me and wordlessly engulfs me in a hug.

I shrug out of it, mock-disgusted, and return Pettigrew's greeting before whirling around to face James. "Will you ever _learn_?" I sigh, but I'm smiling.

"Forgive me for taking last night as encouragement," he says simply, ruffling up his hair. "Moony, do you mind if I steal your date away for a dance?"

"Go right ahead, says Lupin mildly.

Without giving me so much as a second to decide for myself, James whisks me off to the center of the office, where Slughorn's cleared away the furnishings and rugs for a makeshift dance floor. Behind us, I hear Lupin ask, "Care to do the same, Wormtail?"

It's a slower song, but James doesn't bother with formalities. He interlaces his fingers in mine—his palms are sweaty and calloused and oh-so-familiar—and takes his sweet time drawing our hands upward until my arms are draped around his neck, then wraps his own loosely around my waist and starts revolving with me on the spot. "I've missed this," he admits after a few minutes—the music has sped up, but we haven't.

"Is that why you've tried to be so affectionate lately?" I kid, lifting my head from his shoulder to look at him.

"I can't help that you'll only ever touch me when there's music," James shoots back, but he's smiling. "You'll come around someday, Lily, you just wait."

Faintly, I smile back, flushed with embarrassment. "James?" An incoherent murmur in my ear tells me he's listening. "Did you mean it?"

"Mean what?" he mumbles—he sounds more concerned with the fact that he's pressing his cheek up against mine.

"After O.W.L.s last year, when you asked me to go out with you—did you mean it?"

He pulls back and looks at me intently, almost tripping as I keep turning; he's close, too close, his ragged breath warming my nose. "Yes," says James slowly, "but I'm glad you said no."

Something in me deflates. "Why's that?" I prompt.

There's another pause as he closes his eyes and exhales, and his trademark scent of forest and ink and rumpled hair fills me up. "If you'd said yes then," he tells me, "we would never have ended up here."

I don't know what to make of this, so I bury my face in his neck and breathe him in. I reemerge briefly to say hello to Alice and Frank (both looking a bit harried after Slughorn's ambush), then to Lupin and Pettigrew (who've lost five points each for Gryffindor on account of reckless dancing and social impropriety: "I thought you knew that we're openly gay, Professor; we have hot foursomes in the dorms sometimes"), but James doesn't try for conversation again, and I take advantage of the thoughtful silence.

Too soon, I feel James detaching and pulling frantically at my arm. "What?" I ask, oblivious—glancing around, I see no one unpleasant and nothing out of the ordinary.

"Padfoot's coming—you'll want to keep a distance for this," he says elusively.

I go along with it—knowing the Marauders, it's best to take their advice at times like this—and I let James drag me away from the entrance to the office, bumping into a good few students along the way. "I'm sorry—excuse me—sorry—exc—oh, sorry, Sev, I didn't recog—"

I realize my error too late: I've already given Severus an instinctive apology and friendly smile. Sensing something off, James halts in his rather hasty tracks and tenses up when he sees Severus, fist clenching around my clasped hand. "Damn," I mutter anticlimactically, then add knowingly, "James, don't."

"Calling him James now, are you?" sneers Severus. He's not with any other Slytherins this time—I assume he's come alone—and he looks none too happy to see me.

"I thought you didn't care what I do anymore," I say, my voice almost lost in the din. He doesn't reply, just glares contemptuously and starts to brush past me, and something in me just _loses_ it and—"_DON'T YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME THIS TIME!_"

Severus, seemingly startled, freezes and faces me coolly; James reaches out to stop me, but I brush him off, rounding on my former friend. "For _eight years_, you were my best mate—I told everything to you—I _trusted_ you—I thought—"

He cuts across my stammering and says crisply, "You should have thought about that before you left without a trace for the whole summer."

"WELL, YOU SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT ABOUT _THAT_ BEFORE YOU CALLED ME A MUDBLOOD AND GAVE UP TRYING TO APOLOGIZE AFTER SIX HOURS—"

_Splat_.

In my fury, I hadn't noticed the gust of air above me before I feel a barrel's worth of pumpkin juice spill over my head. Seething and mortified, I wipe juice out of my eyes and glance around to find one Sirius Black, standing next to a cackling Peeves and looking thoroughly apologetic. "Evans, I—"

"Sirius, m'boy, twenty points and a detention for bringing a poltergeist as your date and inviting havoc to the party!" Slughorn looks torn between dismay and amusement as he steps forward, clearing away the gathered crowd. "And Lily, my dear girl, let's not make such a commotion in the middle of the festivities! I won't punish you for it this time, but—"

"I'll just be going then, Professor," mutters Severus, not even meeting my eyes as he ducks away—

"_LEVICORPUS!_"

Severus dangles by his ankle in midair, and Slughorn looks at me with an almost bemused expression. "Detention," he says softly, ruefully, and I don't meet anyone's eyes as James gently pulls me out of the room.

There goes my clean record.

Muttering to himself, James guides me to the fifth floor and paces outside a door near a statue of Boris the Bewildered. "_Dammit_… what did Moony say the password was?"

"Peppermint sticks," I say hoarsely—I overheard Alice telling it to a new fifth year prefect last week—and the door swings open to admit us. James gazes at me for a second, wearing an expression akin to admiration, then takes my juice-sticky hand and leads me inside. I hardly notice the grandeur of the bathroom as he turns on a few taps and helps me out of my robes—I've seen _him_ in various states of undress before.

Clad in my undergarments, I ease myself into the pool-sized tub and cling to its edge—I don't much feel like treading water. James bunches up his robes and dangles his legs over the edge, addressing me directly for the first time since the party: "I figured you deserved the privacy of the prefects' bathroom, and the relaxation."

"Thanks," I say. I rub at my arms with the soapy water—the juice is starting to rinse off.

"If you need to, you know…" He looks awkward for the first time all night, really and truly _awkward_, fidgeting and blushing and messing up his hair, half in the water and half out.

I shake my head, and he eases, if only slightly. "No, I'm not going to cry about it this time," I say, more to myself than to James, and then look at him properly. "But there is this one thing…"

My dreams are plagued by nightmares without the potion, but James rolls out of Black's bed every time he hears me and soothes me into a gentler few minutes of sleep. It's like summer, almost, but that James needn't always be there beside me—for the most part, I get through it on my own, and the other boys know enough about it not to ask questions.

Detention, mercifully, is the next night—I'm grateful to get it out of the way before classes resume. Looking regretful all the while, Slughorn assigns lines and leaves in a hurry; we work on the task silently until Black says, "I wouldn't have brought him if I'd known that that would happen, Evans. It was supposed to be a laugh…"

"It's okay, Black, you didn't know," I say automatically, scrawling out for the twenty-sixth time, _I will not curse my classmates, let alone in public vicinities_.

Beat. "I wish you wouldn't call me that," he says eventually, resting his quill on the desk.

"Hhm?"

"Black. My family—well, you've met my brother." I nod, starting to sense where this is going. "They're all like that, mostly. My cousin Bellatrix… Bellatrix Lestrange? She's been a Death Eater for the past year and a half, and I think—I think Regulus might be headed down that road, too."

He says it so callously, so tonelessly, that I stop writing and pull my chair up closer to his. James's voice crosses my mind: _What, you haven't caught on that their little on-again-off-again fling is resurfacing? … April of our fourth year. It was inconspicuous enough, at first—happened right around the time his cousin—er…_ "I heard you ran away last summer," I confess, sliding over my parchment and resuming my lines. "Was that because…?"

"A lot of things, but mostly Regulus," Black confirms. I peer over his shoulder: _I will not invite Peeves to Slug Club events_. "I had a row with my mum… the Ministry finally caught on that Prongs and I were the ones charming my motorbike and sent letters to our parents. Mum freaked—half an hour later, Regulus came home and announced that he'd been talking with Bellatrix and her husband, Rodolphus. Prejudice is one thing; joining the war is another… I've been living with Prongs ever since."

I don't know what else to say, so I dive right in with him. "You were sort of right last July… about the Dark Magic." Black looks alarmed, so I continue, talking faster now, "Not that I've ever gotten into it, but Severus—_Snape_—I always knew he was interested. I thought I could stop him—change him—but…" I give a little sigh and glance back at my parchment. "People are who they are, I suppose."

He smiles, just a little. "You're not who I thought you were," he says, and I've been around him enough to know that this is a good thing. "So what about that mad sister of yours, hmm?"

Detention, suddenly, doesn't seem like such a curse anymore.


	14. September 20th: Alice Abbott

**September 20****th****: Alice Abbott**

I'm a little surprised when Marlene asks to work with me on Monday morning—in all fairness and honesty, we've never been that close, and Lily's more talented at Charms than I am. I accept, though, always happy for the opportunity to spend time with my fellow Gryffindors, and her real reasons become clear within minutes of the start of class.

"I'm going to tell you something," she mutters, pulling out her textbook, "and I want you to listen as my mate, not as my house prefect."

Worriedly, I glance to Sirius's table—he's partnering both Remus and Em, since Lily wants nothing to do with the latter as of late. "Not about me and Black," Marlene appends quickly, and I heave a sigh and avert my eyes—if anything, this is a relief. "But promise that you won't—report it or—take disciplinary action."

"Is it serious?" I murmur, propping open my book to cover my mouth from Flitwick's view.

"I don't think so, but—just promise first."

Reluctantly, I nod and give my assent. Marlene settles a little into her seat and says, "I caught Lily coming down from the boys' dormitory this morning—she's been sleeping up there for the past two nights."

I'm taken aback: Lily sleeping in the boys' dormitory? The same Lily who befriended Slytherins and who never received a detention in five years (until now)? I glance over at her table, where she and James are huddled together, shoulders brushing. "I'm sure she had a good explanation," I say confidently. "Lily would never do anything—er—"

"Like I did," finishes Marlene, looking altogether unaffected by this view of herself.

Immediately, I launch into protect-Marlene's-self-confidence mode. "Oh, Marlene, you know I don't mean—"

"It doesn't matter if it is or not; I'm not seeing him anymore," she assures me. I tally mentally: it hasn't quite been four days since she last slept with him, though I don't think it would be wise to bring this up. "But could you maybe talk to her, figure out what she's been doing up there? I just want to know that she's…"

I'm hesitant to _complain_, per say, but I voice my reservations: "You're sure you want _me_ to ask about it? It's just that you know her so much better…"

Marlene scoffs, "Do I _look_ like I'm in the best position to give relationship advice?"

Her words give me pause. "You don't think they're in a relationship, do you?" I ask.

"They could be," she says, softer than before. "There was that date to Hogsmeade last summer—well, not really, but _still_—she invited him to the wedding, he was there when she found out about her parents… plus they're on a first-name basis, she never goes anywhere without him anymore, he keeps trying to kiss her, and from what you said happened between them at the Slug Club last Saturday—"

I blush: I hate feeling like I'm ratting out a friend. "I'll talk to her," I agree, "but I want you to _promise_, Marlene, that you won't tell anyone else about this. Not Em, not Mary—"

"Why would I tell Em or Mary?" says Marlene. "Em either wouldn't care or would tell Maggie, and we all know how _that_ would end—and Mary—well, I'm not speaking to Mary, actually."

I'm starting to see why she came to me about this. "Did something happen?" I say carefully, making a mental note to ask Mary about it later—I'd hate to only hear one side of the story.

She shrugs, flipping a page of her book. "We… don't quite see eye to eye about some things. It'll pass; it always does."

I let it go for now and cast one more look at Lily—she's pointing something out in the textbook to James, who keeps trying to scoot his chair closer to hers. "Can you think of something to get James away from her after class? I'll ask her about it then."

One hour, four passed notes, two Dungbombs, and two detentions later, I get Lily alone in the corridor; we're apart from the other girls, as Em wants nothing to do with Marlene's melodrama and Mary accompanies her out five minutes before Lily and I leave. "You know, Lily, about this morning…" I begin—to my chagrin, my voice has taken on a concerned, patronizing tone.

"It wasn't anything, okay?" says Lily quickly, reddening. "Ask any of the boys yourself. I'm not—"

"I'm sure you've done nothing wrong," I assure her, "but it's not healthy, and I don't want you to regret anything later. I just have your best interests—"

"Right," she scoffs, looking down. We've reached the stairs, but she keeps on walking; I lag behind, letting her go. "Just like how you want the best for every other girl in this school."

I try not to believe her as she walks away.

The prefect meeting the next night is illuminating, if anything. The last one had been Kingsley's to run, but now it's Dorcas Meadowes's turn—and not everyone is willing to accept her authority. She enters flanked by Damocles Belby and Dolores Umbridge; the former I can understand, the most decent of my year's Slytherins, but Umbridge surprises me, ambitious with of another definition that she is. It hits me after the fact: when Meadowes made Head Girl, Meadowes took her vacated prefect post. Of course—with Umbridge, there's always a self-serving reason.

There are jeers from some of the fifth years, led by Regulus Black, I discover as I glance toward their gaggle. His eyes flicker to Remus's for a moment, then to mine, and a chill runs down my spine: I've never felt comfortable around Sirius's brother. "All right, er—the roll, then," says Meadowes, taking up post at the front of the room. "By house and year. Gryffindor, seventh year: Angela Macmillan and Gideon Prewett?"

"Present," says a cool female voice—Angela, seething in her seat with resentment. Gideon doesn't even bother replying, just inclines his head with a dare in his eyes.

Meadowes mumbles her acknowledgement, her voice trailing off—she's not nearly the big, bad wolf that she's made out to be. "Gryffindor, sixth year: Alice Abbott and Remus Lupin?"

"Here," I say definitively, as Remus contributes something to the same effect. Meadowes smiles slightly to both of us, only to be booed by Benjy Fenwick and Edgar Bones, the latter of whom is called on next.

Already, it looks to be a long night, and we're not even a full minute in. Roll call passes far too slowly before we move on to the Hogsmeade trip—it's set for next weekend—and evening patrols. "Kingsley and I have agreed that we'd like to encourage inter-house unity, and to that effect—"

There's a small uproar at this particular announcement, punctuated by Margaret Edgecombe's stage whisper of, "Oh, Merlin, I hope I won't be working with that fat cow…"

For the first time all night, Meadowes flares up, her eyes sparking dangerously. "Settle down," she says, her voice soft but commanding. "That's enough."

She is paid no heed—at least, until Kingsley roars, "She _said_, that's enough!"

Startled into submission, the prefects quiet down; the blotchy color slowly starts to drain from Meadowes's face. "To that end, he and I have assembled a list of partners for you to patrol with—as we don't know your schedules, we'd like you to talk with your partners and sign up for two nights that work for you each next month. The partnership list is posted by the sign-up patrol sheet, if you'll all take a look after the meeting…"

As fate would have it, I'm with Frank—Remus, though, is not so lucky, assigned to patrol with Regulus. Shooting him a sympathetic look, I talk with Frank and choose our dates, after which he offers to walk me back to the common room. As we leave the classroom, I hear Meadowes softly thank Kingsley for backing her up, and he replies, "I've been saying it for months now; people don't give you enough credit. Think Gideon will come around after patrolling with you?"

"You don't think Lily's upset with me for anything, do you?" I ask Frank in earnest as the other prefects go their separate ways. He doesn't reply, just meets my eyes and nods for me to elaborate. "It's just… I asked her today about, er, something Marlene saw her do this morning—nothing _bad_ or anything, just, you know, questionable. She's Lily; she would never… and, well, she lashed out at me a little, said that—that I don't think of her any differently than anyone else at Hogwarts."

Frank sighs, "Alice, you can't blame her for not completely trusting you yet. You've only been her mate for, what, a month? After five years of…"

I go on, picking up anxious steam, "I don't think it's about that, though—I mean, I would understand if it _were_, but—do you think that she thought she would be prefect, Frank, before last year?"

"Lily? Prefect?" He thinks on it for a moment, that faraway, pondering look in his eyes. "There was some talk in fourth year that she might get it… you've always had higher marks, but she went out of her way to be nice to the Slytherins, Dumbledore always likes that, and she took the way you lot treated her well…"

"We weren't awful to her," I argue as we round a corner, reaching the stairs. "I don't defend how we treated her, no, but it wasn't openly hostile—not with me, anyway. All right, Mary did spread a few rumors—where else do you think the one about the Dark Arts came from?—and Marlene would tease her sometimes, and Potter's attention probably embarrassed her, even if he didn't mean for it to… but I tried to be nice to her, even though I didn't understand her friendship with Snape. I wrote her sometimes over the summer, I worked with her in Ancient Runes and Arithmancy…"

Frank waits a moment before answering, collecting his thoughts. "You may not have done anything wrong, Alice, but collectively—you Gryffindors always made things difficult on Lily, and she might have seen you as—a rival of sorts."

"Oh, but there's no rivalry," I say, my brow furrowing in a baffled line. "I've always gotten higher marks; it's not a point of contention…"

"To you, it may not be. To her… oh, Alice, it's all right." He wraps his arms around me, and I lean warmly into the hug. "Things will work out with her, I promise." I nod, mostly to convince myself, and pull back; he smiles, fingering a lock of my hair. "Curls look nice on you," he remarks—straightforward but sweet.

Blushing, I step out of Frank's arms and resume our climb to the seventh floor. "Thanks. Marlene's been helping me with them… usually, Mary would, but she's having some sort of shift of priorities as of late and, well, won't."

"Ah, well, better Marlene than Mary," says Frank sagely. "You're already blonde; it looks better without any added highlights."

"Frank Longbottom," I scold gently, giggling, "was that a jibe at one of my best mates?"

"Merely a compliment," Frank clarifies.

I've reddened even further, but I take my shot now, while I have the nerve. It's funny; I can withstand full-fledged Auror training but get nervous at the thought of just one boy. "So I was wondering about that Hogsmeade trip we scheduled today…"

That Hogsmeade trip turns out to be a much bigger deal than either of us imagined when he accepted my invitation. The flyer in the Gryffindor common room looks innocent enough on its own as I tack it up between a Quidditch practice notice and the new class standings list. Pushing the class standings from my mind for now, I give the flyer a satisfied once-over: _Hogsmeade, October 2__nd_.

I'm then shoved out of the way by a few burly fourth year boys as students start to trickle out of their dormitories for breakfast. At least I've done my job—if I do say so myself, the message is simple but powerful. Or maybe I'm making an unnecessarily big deal out of it.

It's Wednesday, which means discussing everyone and her mother's love lives over vicious potted plants. "Mary's taking Cattermole, isn't she?" asks Peter, eyeing his knife warily: we're trimming Alihosty roots today, and he's never been handy with a blade.

"Clearly," says Marlene dryly, tipping her head toward Mary. She's working with Reginald and Benjy, the latter of whom is singlehandedly battling their Alihosties as Mary and her date engross each other in conversation.

"Poor Benjy, putting up with so much," says James lightly. His eyes widen, and I swallow thickly as he rounds on Marlene and me. "D'you think Lily'd let me take her if I asked?"

I'm doubtful, but Marlene latches onto the idea. "You know, I think she probably would," she considers, James's face lighting up more by the second. "Aren't you two basically dating now, anyway?"

"Well, not _exactly_…" hedges Peter. Marlene's face falls a little: the idea probably doesn't seem so likely now that their relationship isn't a sure thing to her. "You're just friends, right, Prongs? With a couple of benefits."

"What kinds of benefits?" prompts Marlene, still a bit intrigued.

"Occasional hugging benefits, and not rowing benefits, and giving up my bed benefits," mutters James, visibly disgruntled. Marlene and I exchange a look that the boys are quick enough to catch. "Yeah, yeah, it's not how it looks—she's coming off her Dreamless Sleep Potion and needs a place to crash with heavy sleepers who snore. I'm bedding with Padfoot while she's with us."

This is definitely not the explanation I had expected. I'm surprised that Lily trusts James enough to confide this in him, even more shocked that she would keep it from us—to protect us? Suddenly, I feel more than a little guilty for confronting her about the dormitory last Monday. After Snape, her parents… "Keep your voice down; remember, Veronica Smethley is less than two meters away from you," I implore—after everything, we at least owe it to Lily to protect what little privacy she has left.

"Ask her anyway," says Marlene hastily. "Even if she's not interested—and I'm starting to think that she _is_ interested, from the way she talks about you—you can always go as friends, and that's more time with her, at least. Have anyone in mind to ask, Pete?" she adds.

"Oh, er…" Peter looks flustered by Marlene's question—like Remus and James, he's never had a girlfriend before and probably doesn't plan on getting one. "Well, I was thinking of asking Siobhan Flynn from Ravenclaw, but—"

"You can't ask _her_ to Hogsmeade, Wormtail!" erupts James. Veronica Smethley is staring, so he lowers his voice and goes on in a frantic whisper, "Haven't you learned anything from Padfoot? You can't ask the younger girls _now_; you'll exhaust the dating pool, and then who will you go with in seventh year? Upperclassmen now, underclassmen later."

Peter rolls his eyes. "So says the bloke who's been saving his first kiss for a girl he'll never get with since third year," he scoffs.

James turns all sorts of colors and says merely, "You _know_ how close I got with Dana Madley last year. If I'd been interested…"

"You're going with Frank again, then, Alice?" says Peter over James's mumbled embarrassment.

I nod, but that's apparently not enough. "As friends again, or have you finally gotten over yourself and asked him out properly?"

"Shut it, Marlene," I reply, blushing. "Frank and I are just mates—that's it!"

"Right, like Black and I are just mates, hhm?"

A hush falls over the group of us at the open allusion to their relationship; rattled, James nearly cuts off his finger and swears under his breath. "I thought you stopped seeing him," I say slowly, crossing to the boys' side of the table and mending James's finger with a flick of my wand.

"I may not be seeing him _now_, but that doesn't make everything platonic overnight," Marlene shrugs. "He can take whomever he'd like to Hogsmeade, but we can't just call the whole thing off and just be mates; it doesn't work like that, Alice, same with you and Frank."

I don't want to believe her, but her words stay with me all through class and into the first break. It's only up in the dormitory when Em takes my mind off it, remarking, "Class standings are posted in the common room."

Lily tenses immediately; sensing this, Moonshine leaps out of her lap and into mine, yowling. "Professor McGonagall put them up last night, I think," says Mary, unusually interested. "They go by O.W.L.s—like, the number you got—marks for the classes you're taking this year—that's labeled 'sixth year initial—and then 'fifth year final' is your overall standing that accounts for, like, your marks and the number of classes you took. That's the important one; that's the score that factors in to determine valedictorian and salutatorian at graduation."

I'm only a little nervous—all right, I'm quite nervous. "Did you happen to glimpse our ranks while you were checking yours, Mary?"

"Relax, Alice, you did fine—you're second. I'm not sure who's first; I asked Reg and Benjy in Herbology, and, like, they say it isn't a Hufflepuff, either… they only list Gryffindors in our common room, you know." I exhale, my heart rate slowing again. "Lene, you're sixteenth; Em, twenty-second… and Lily, you're eleventh."

"Eleventh," Lily repeats, testing out the sound of it. "_Eleventh_."

I suddenly remember that the first qualification to become valedictorian is to have been one of the top ten students every year. I want to say _something_ to tell her it's all right, but I don't know how to phrase it without sounding condescending, so I quickly change the subject: "Remember when we were first years and worried about just _passing_ our classes?"

Marlene laughs derisively. "You know, I lied that summer—I _did_ fail Herbology, with a D."

"Out it comes, four years later," says Em, absentmindedly scratching behind Aquarius's ears. Marlene glares at her; the rest of us burst into laughter—even Lily.

"Those were the days," I reminisce. "Remember the train ride? I came with Marlene, since my parents knew hers, and we ended up in a compartment with Dana Madley, Gilderoy Lockhart, and Veronica Smethley—"

"—I still reckon you don't like Ver just because she accidentally spilled pumpkin juice on your only new pair of robes, and you had to find a second year to use _Scourgify_ because you didn't know any magic—" continues Mary, grinning.

Marlene rolls her eyes, but she's unconsciously fingering the hem of her robes. "Hey, I didn't know who Dorcas Meadowes was when I asked for her help—it wasn't my fault that she was a right little bitch when she was prepubescent! She wasn't halfway decent like she is now!"

"I didn't know you think Meadowes is decent," says Mary—the wall between her and Marlene is starting to crumble.

She shrugs, flicking back her hair. "Well, nowadays she doesn't go around hexing first years for fun. Lucky that the Prewett twins were in the compartment one down from theirs and knew the countercurse."

"Remember how Fabian used to _hate_ Meadowes?" says Lily—I'm glad to see that she's perking up. "He went off about how all Slytherins are evil scum and would have gone on for a good quarter-hour if Snape and I hadn't been sharing the compartment with him and Gideon since we left the Marauders'."

"Meanwhile, Em was getting into a rather noisy row with some Gryffindor third years for insulting her height, and Mary was preoccupied bonding with all her future boyfriends—not that you knew it at the time, Mare," chuckles Marlene.

I sigh contentedly, stretching out on my four-poster and letting Moonshine scamper back to Em and Aquarius. "We were so different back then, you know? Mary, you were a _tomboy_, of all things, and Em was so outgoing…"

Em says nothing, but the corners of her lips turn up; Mary fiddles with her split ends and smiles. "The boys were, like, identical, though, don't you think? Except Sirius and Em were inseparable, and James used not to follow Lily around—"

"Whatever happened between you and Black?" asks Marlene, rolling onto her back and yawning. "You two were always inseparable, and then…"

"He got too interested," says Em airily. The rest of us stare. "At the worst possible time."

Mary says contemplatively, "I'm glad you weren't mates with us before now, Lily. Not to be rude… it's just that, like, it's only a matter of time before you and James get together, and it would feel a bit like incest if you were always on the inside."

She's hit full on with Lily's denial ("James and I are _not_ getting together!") and Marlene's indignation ("Black and I are like _incest_ now?") and ducks for cover behind her hangings, laughing. Em and I exchange a look, and I try and fail to stifle my giggles as she shakes her head and almost, _almost_, smiles.

Greta, Em… Marlene. It gets me thinking enough that I flag Peter down after lunch—he's just as likely as the others to have answers and is the Marauder I trust most not to tell Sirius about what's to follow. "Can you keep a secret?" I ask first, just to be sure, once we've locked ourselves in the boys' dormitory; he tells me that the others have taken a trip to the kitchens without him. It's more than a bit messy, and I cringe with disgust as I clear a food-free space on what I assume is Sirius's bed to sit.

"As long as it's for a good reason," he says honestly. He's a lot more confident outside James and Sirius's shadow, and he carries a set jaw and a steady gaze.

"Depends on how you look at it," I admit. "Sirius would probably want to know about this, but then, it's better for everyone else that he not. It's… it's about Em, Peter."

Something tightens in his expression, and Peter nods, his eyes fluttering shut. "What did she say about him?"

"Peter—" I start, doubtful.

"Her exact words, Alice—please."

There's something desperate about the way he's looking at me, so I comply, however unnecessary it feels. "She said, er, that he got interested in her at a bad time."

"That's what I thought," says Peter as he starts to pace, and he cuts off my questions, gaining momentum, speaking faster now. "He didn't get interested in her romantically, he just—noticed."

"What are you talking about?" I ask, my interest sparking. "Noticed what?"

"Did you really think it was a coincidence that Em and Padfoot drifted apart in fourth year?" Peter suggests, his voice getting higher. "That it was right around the time when Emmeline drifted apart from _all_ of us, that it was _right around the time_ when Padfoot and Marlene—"

He breaks off abruptly and meets my eyes again. "Oh, Merlin." He doesn't seem willing to tell me the details, so I don't push it and just wait for him to go on. "Oh, bloody hell, I think it was _her_."

"But—"

Peter shakes his head and slowly sits on the edge of his bed. "I won't tell Padfoot—there's no use talking to Padfoot about it—but you really, really ought to talk to Emmeline."

"What do you know, Pettigrew?" I demand icily. It's just like it was during Sirius and Marlene's fight in the common room; I don't lose my cool often, but enough cruelty and lies can set me off. "What aren't you telling me? _Why_ won't you—"

"I'm sorry, Alice, I want to, but it's not my place to jump to conclusions and then spread rumors about it," Peter sighs. "Ask her what happened, and don't take 'nothing' for an ans—"

He breaks off and I jump as the door flies open; behind it, James is stowing his wand away and muttering, "Merlin, how paranoid _is_ Moony—what are you two doing in here?"

"Brainstorming for the Herbology essay. Alice had a few good ideas," Peter lies smoothly. "Where are Moony and Padfoot?"

"Still in the kitchens, I expect," says James wearily. "I hung back to ask Lily to Hogsmeade—she said no."

I shake my head sympathetically. "That's tough, Potter, I'm sorry."

He notices me properly for the first time since he's come in here, taking his eyes off of Peter. "She's not mad at you, you know—Lily. I heard that you two got into a bit of a disagreement last Monday—"

"Word travels fast here at Hogwarts," says Peter darkly.

"—But she was just on edge about people knowing she's been staying up here; she says she didn't mean it." James smiles at me weakly, stepping forward—I assume with a jolt that I'm _not_ sitting on Sirius's bed, but James shakes his head and laughs. "You really think Lily's _that_ messy when she sleeps up here? I'm sharing this one with Padfoot. Budge up."

I get up, casting one last look at the food crumbs all over James and Sirius's bedspread. "I'll just be going, then… good luck with the essay, Peter."

Hurrying out of the dormitory and down the stairs, I find the other girls gathered around the fire and join them with a pleasant smile. Marlene and Mary seem to have made up, but that's only to be expected; feuds rarely last long between any of us. "Look who's in the wrong dormitory now," says Em; I glare playfully at her but say nothing more, not wanting to bring my suspicions up just yet.

"You knew about that?" asks Marlene incredulously, glancing for a fraction of a second at Lily, then back.

Mary sighs and draws her knees up to her chest—she's sitting in an armchair with her feet propped up on the cushion. "Why do I get the feeling that I'm out of the loop?"

"I believe that Lily can do the explaining," I say, smiling at her; the look she gives me back is mortified but reconciliatory. I think back to something Em told me once—that I'm always the first person to try to smooth everything out—and hope that I'm better than she claimed.

It's been a weird week, and I'm only halfway through.


	15. September 29th: Mary Macdonald

**September 29****th****: Mary Macdonald**

For as long as I can remember—well, technically, for the last three years, but no one's counting—I've kept a journal. Before you laugh and assume it's actually a diary, I'll have to prove you wrong, sadly: I don't think a narrative record of every bit of gossip I've heard within the Hogwarts walls can count as a _diary_, exactly, since there's not a word in it about my own experiences (at least, not unless they're intertwined with someone else's). Nobody but Marlene knows about it, and she only does because she caught me writing in it last year and I'm no good at lying—I'm a little afraid to think what would happen if anyone else found out about it, since spending too much time with the Hufflepuffs has given me the resources to document a lot more than I ought to know… enough to fill a few hundred pages, anyway.

I haven't written in it since September 16th. I guess the world will never know about Greta and Davies's juicy late-night scuffle on top of the Astronomy Tower.

"Merlin, how long will it take for you to realize that I don't _care_?" I tell Samantha Spinnet, a Chaser for the Ravenclaw Quidditch team and unfortunately my fellow sixth year, for the umpteenth time. Ravenclaws have Herbology after the Gryffindors every Wednesday, and she's run into me in the quarter-hour between the two classes to share the latest piece of gossip in which I'm not interested (not that anyone ever believes me).

Spinnet shrugs, picking up her pace—I'm hurrying up the stairs to the seventh floor in an effort to get away from her. "Don't blame me; I'm just the messenger," she says, hoisting her bag up her shoulder. "Dana said you're the person to tell for word to get back around to Paul-"

"What is she, your ringleader?" I taunt in spite of my better instincts. "Why can't you lot just tell him yourself if it's that important to you? _Why_ is it that important to you?"

"Well, Carol will kill any Ravenclaw who lets it slip to the other houses, let alone Paul, but he still ought to know that Carol isn't over him in case he wants to give it another go with her. We all want them to get back together, if only because Greta is so bloody _annoying_-"

I cut her off, reaching the seventh floor landing: "_You_ are so bloody annoying. Just-go back to the greenhouse; go, like, find somebody shallow to do your dirty work."

Spinnet pants, "But Dana said you're-"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll make it happen. Now go!" With one last glance at me, she nods dumbly and tears off for the staircase again—she may be clever, but judging by that exchange, she's not especially bright… oh, who am I to judge, when my class rank is twenty-ninth out of thirty-two?

I throw myself past the portrait hole and storm up to the dormitory, shaking my head at Marlene's invitation to join the rest of the girls in the common room. Lily is missing along with the Marauders, I notice—words will be said about her newfound friendship with James, no doubt, but I want nothing to do with words, not anymore.

Tugging idly at my hair—without its twice-a-week fix of Sleekeazy's, it's starting to take on an orange tint—I recall the Hogsmeade plans I've collected over the past week. To no one's surprise, Alice is going with Frank, Greta with Patil, Elisabeth with Benjy—to everyone's surprise, Lily turned James down, but the Marauders have still been divided for the trip by Peter's date with fifth year Siobhan Flynn. Reg is still taking me, which is about the only thing I've had to look forward to for the past fortnight; unfortunately, spending time with him means spending time with his Hufflepuff mates, and I don't exactly have the patience for that just yet.

I sigh: what does it _matter_, anyway? People die and go missing because of the war every day, and all I can think about are Hogsmeade dates and the color of my hair? No wonder Marlene doesn't trust me properly—this is exactly the kind of thing that gives me a bad reputation.

Then again, I was under the impression that we'd always be best mates, no matter how low either of us would go.

I turn, startled, as the door creaks open behind me; it's Em, wordlessly stepping into the dorm. I think back to a comment Alice dropped last night and vow not to let Em get away without a proper conversation tonight. "Hey," I say, my voice strangled a little as I struggle to hold in my anticipation.

She raises an eyebrow at my etiquette and crosses to the foot of her bed, where she kneels and starts to rummage through her trunk. "Hello."

"Looking for something?" I ask eagerly, hopping off my own bed to join her.

I flush a bit as she gives me an incredulous look, though I can't blame her: I'm usually not this social with her. "My diary," she says, her tone suspicious.

"I have a diary, too," I say immediately—where will I get without trust? "I mean, I haven't written in it for a while, and, like, it's not really a _diary_… it's more of a record of-of-"

"That's nice," says Em, retrieving a thick, leather-bound book and rising to leave.

"No!" I erupt, surprising even myself. She lingers near the bed, the diary drawn up to her chest. "Don't go yet. I-I was hoping to, like, get a chance to talk to you."

Growing exasperated, Em repeats, "Talk to me. Right."

"I was! I haven't seen much of you lately, and I thought we should, like, catch up," I insist, albeit a bit feebly.

She doesn't appear at all convinced, but I'm relieved nonetheless when she sits delicately on the edge of her bed and maintains eye contact. From the looks of it, she's not going to be the first to talk, so I think fast for something to say: "Er, are you going to Hogsmeade this Saturday?"

"No," says Em shortly. She's usually stoic, but now, she's tapping her foot idly against the bed frame in a clear sign of impatience.

"Oh. I'm-I'm going with Reg," I stammer. When did it get so hard to carry a conversation with the witch?

Unimpressed, Em says, "If that's all-"

"Of course that's not all! I just, like, wanted to talk to you as a mate, and you can't be bothered to say more than two words at a time to me!" I say, letting loose.

"People change," she says curtly. The tapping of her foot is getting steadily louder.

I shake my head, yellow-orange hair fanning out and blurring my vision. "Not this much."

Em scoffs, "So that's what this is about. Fine, I'll play by your rules—if I'm not allowed to be introverted, I guess it was impossible from you to go from a _tomboy_ to—_that_." She waves disdainfully in my direction, and I glance down at myself: in addition to my train-wreck of a hairstyle, my robes are wrinkled and unwashed, and I remember that I'm still wearing last Sunday's eyeliner.

It doesn't matter, though—none of it _matters_ when something has happened to Em, something _is happening_ to Em, and none of us have bothered to take notice until now. "Don't make this about me. Like, I'm not as thick as you seem to think-"

"I doubt that," she interrupts, winding down. She's easing back into what's become her usual stately self; she's putting up the walls she's been constructing for the past two years. "If you'll excuse me…"

"I miss you, Em," I say, my last attempt to keep her here. She doesn't stop to hear me out. "Can you at least tell Maggie to spread the word about Greta and Davies's trophy room row over Paul?" I half shout at her retreating back.

She's already nodded curtly and stalked out of the dorm by the time it dawns on me that she'd never planned to hear me out in the first place.

She stays on my mind all the way until Saturday, when it occurs to me that I haven't seen Reg since Herbology on Wednesday to confirm today's plans. "Do you think he'll remember where we're meeting?" I ask Marlene anxiously as we're getting ready that morning. Em's nowhere to be found, and Lily isn't bothering to dress especially well, leaving just the three of us here in the dorm.

Marlene's busy helping Alice with her curls, but she halts her wand-work for a moment to glance over her shoulder and meet my eyes. "Sure he will—you're not going looking like _that_, are you?"

"If you're talking about my roots, I'm not, like, touching them up," I say, crossing my arms.

Alice gives me a sympathetic look as Marlene leaves her hair half-curled and comes over to my bed. "Your color needs a bit more than a touch-up, but no, I wasn't talking about that. When was the last time you even looked in a mirror? Last week?"

"Says the witch who admires herself every time she walks past one—I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it!" squeals Alice, ducking and laughing as Marlene jokingly points her wand at her. "Please don't ruin my hair; it'll take me ages to fix it on my own, you know that, Marlene!"

"Oh, shut it, Alice, I'll finish up with you later. Mare here is a bigger disaster waiting to happen than you," Marlene says, turning her wand on me this time. "You'd better be glad that you haven't seen Cattermole; it's bad enough that he saw how you were dressed in Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures…"

I say defensively, "I like to think that Reg likes me for who I am, not how I look, thanks."

"Hate to break it to you, but all blokes are the same, and they're always a fair bit more concerned with how girls look than anyone would like," retorts Marlene. "You'll have to change into fresh robes, of course, and that _hair_… you don't happen to know where you've left your wizard's hat, do you, because that'll be a huge help if you can find it…?"

It's nice to finally see Reg; it hasn't really sunken in until now how much I've missed him all week. He's dressed casually for the occasion, making me feel a bit silly in my borrowed dress robes and thick makeup. "Hi, Mary," he says carefully—Reg does everything carefully, it seems.

"Reg! I haven't seen you, like, all week—how have you been?" I pounce on him in an awkward half-hug, "half" in that he doesn't return it. Whoops, I forgot—he's not the biggest fan of public affection.

"All right, I suppose. They sure keep us busy with homework these days, don't they?" He shuffles back as I let him go, and we move up a few steps in Filch's line. "You look nice, but you really didn't have to dress up for me…"

"Oh, this was nothing—all Marlene's doing, anyway," I assure him. "I haven't even _touched_ my hair."

Reg shrugs a bit uncomfortably. "Change is always good," he says neutrally. "So were you thinking of doing anything today? Benjy and Elisabeth are going to The Three Broomsticks around noon, if you'd like to meet them there… they say that we're welcome to join them for butterbeers."

"That sounds great, Reg," I say warmly. I scramble to think what the other Gryffindors are doing—aren't I supposed to be the one who hoards this kind of information? "I don't think Alice wants us to meet up with her and Longbottom; she might, like, think it would feel too much like a double date…"

"They're not dating yet?" asks Reg, genuinely surprised. I shake my head and laugh—it's about time that the two of them wake up and smell the roses, so to speak.

The distraction gives me time to remember where the others are spending the day. "Lupe, James, and Sirius will probably be in Zonko's all day, and, like, Siobhan Flynn is making Pett go to Madam Puddifoot's for brunch…"

"I'd rather not go to Puddifoot's," says Reg uncomfortably, and I grin and agree with the sentiment. "And Lily and Marlene?"

"Oh, they're going all over," I say vaguely. "Where do you want to go first?"

He shrugs, commenting, "I'd like to stop in at Dervish and Banges, unless you'd rather…"

"No, Dervish and Banges is fine," I agree. We've reached Filch, and I roll my eyes in Reg's direction as Filch starts to search me for illegal items; he chuckles appreciatively and waits his turn.

The morning goes well, though it's a bit disappointing that, after our stop at Dervish and Banges, the trip seems to revolve around running into other people. After a few hours in Scrivenshaft and Honeydukes, we head up to The Three Broomsticks at half past twelve, purchases in hand. "I asked Benjy to save seats for us in case we see them," Reg tells me, pocketing his moneybag and holding the door for me as we step outside.

"All right," I say, at a loss for words now that we're alone. What did I ever used to talk to him about? Did I just keep up the steady stream of gossip that I'm tempted to dish out now? Merlin, I'm worse than I thought…

We walk mostly in silence—comfortable silence, but silence nonetheless—and it's a relief to finally enter The Three Broomsticks and find ourselves surrounded by the din of the pub. Benjy sees us first and flags us down, grinning broadly; Elisabeth waves us over as well, though her smile is noticeably softer than his. "Enjoying yourselves?" Benjy asks—he's the first to talk, too, and I get the impression that he's the dominant one in their relationship.

"It's been fun," I say despite my doubt, smiling at Reg. "I was looking forward to going to Gladrags, but, like, the sign says it's been closed for a month because of the war…"

"Bloody You-Know-Who," says Benjy darkly, wolfing down a swig of butterbeer. "I reckon half the shops will be closed down by the time this thing is over…"

There it is, _You-Know-Who_—I don't read the _Prophet_, but Alice says its editors have stopped calling him by his name, and it looks like the students are starting to follow suit. What was it that Alice said? Something about fear of a name… "It depends on how long the war goes on for," says Elisabeth reasonably, passing butterbeers to Reg and me. "Half the shops could close within a couple of years, and it'll be worse if it lasts any longer… we all heard Dumbledore at the entrance feast; it's already affecting business. That explains why they're giving out internships to students, at any rate—did you hear about that mass Ministry layoff last week? They don't have to pay us to do the work of a professional, and they already can't afford all those salaries."

"I've been meaning to ask you about that, Elisabeth—how's your internship going?" asks Reg, accepting his butterbeer with a smile. "I reckon Auror training must be fascinating. And yours, Benjy—you're in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, right?"

Benjy nods but lets Elisabeth talk—he has better manners than I assumed. "I'm surprised that they offered Auror internships at all, since that's not cutting any costs for the Ministry. Besides, we're a liability for them, if anything, since we don't have our N.E.W.T.s yet… the training is fairly dangerous for us without strong Defense Against the Dark Arts credentials. It's been fascinating, of course, but I'm still glad that we have the day off to come to Hogsmeade. There are just four of us in the program: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Alice, Frank, and me. A few other seventh years got in at first but didn't make the initial cut, and then Marlene…"

She doesn't embellish this point, and for this I'm grateful on Marlene's behalf. Benjy is quick to change the subject: "Mine's going great, too, but I don't think I'll end up going into sports. It's cool to work on the World Cup, but it's just not _important_, you know? Quidditch is brilliant, but I feel like it should stay a hobby; when I do get a job, I want to contribute to the Wizarding world, not just fly around it."

As of late, I can empathize, at least a little—_Witch Weekly_ just doesn't report anything that matters. "How has, like, Quidditch practice been for your team?" I say, addressing them both.

"Excellent," says Benjy, rubbing his hands together excitedly. "I won't say much—house privacy, you know—but we're going to cream Ravenclaw in November, I can tell you that. Madley's team doesn't stand a chance."

"Isn't Regulus Black the new Slytherin Seeker?" Reg says, sipping his butterbeer.

I nod, gulping down my own drink. "Don't mention it in front of, like, anyone else in Gryffindor. Sirius might kill him with a Bludger at the first game, judging by the moods he gets in after practices."

"Your game will be a hell of a lot more interesting than ours," says Benjy; the table shakes a little as he slams down his mug. "You've got two Blacks on opposing teams, Meadowes is Captaining against Gideon Prewett with Fabian on your team—and Potter's temper tends to be short where Regulus Black is concerned, too. It's an explosive combination if I've ever seen one."

"Here's hoping that, like, they all make it out alive," I say.

Elisabeth smiles and jokes, "Even the Slytherins?"

My laughter drowns out Reg's human-rights indignation—at least, until Benjy decides that he approves of his girlfriend's burgeoning sense of humor and plants a wet one on her right then and there. Partly just to make things difficult for Reg, I choose now to excuse myself to the ladies' room, where I spend a good deal longer powdering my nose than I should.

We leave shortly after that—the two Hufflepuff prefects finish before us, and Reg says something about wanting to take me up to the Shrieking Shack. I comply, if only because it'll finally give us a bit of privacy, and it's not long before we've paid for our butterbeers and walked the short distance, standing in the wind.

"Do you believe what they say, like, about how this place is haunted?" I ask—my cheeks are pink and raw from the weather, and the subdued atmosphere of the Shack is starting to get to me. We've been dating for all these weeks, yet we have nothing to say to each other…

"Maybe," Reg murmurs, and there's something foreboding about the way he glances at me. "Mary-"

I kiss him, timing be damned; I don't care, suddenly, that I feel like I don't _know_ him or that he thinks the fourth date is too early. He doesn't react but doesn't pull away, and his lips are chapped and dry, and it's nothing like I wanted but everything I needed, and—

Reg steps back all too soon, rubbing the back of his neck and turning bright red. "That's one way to try to put it off," he says quietly, looking at the ground, the Shack—anywhere but me.

"Put what off?" I ask, straightening my robes. "Am I making you uncomfortable? Is this, like, too fast?"

"I'll say," he sighs, now scratching his head. "Look—Mary—I think we should… spend some time apart for a while."

I'm baffled for a moment, then start to catch on. "Reg, you're not—you can't be-"

"It isn't about you," he says quickly, tripping over his words. "Well, it is, just not—er—clearly you've having some sort of crisis, and-"

"I'm not having a crisis!" I insist.

"-A-a change, then, let's call it that—and I just think it's better that you sort everything out before this gets too-too—serious." He's blushing darker, almost apologetically.

I cross my arms and gape, mortified. "So you're not serious about this—about _me_."

"No, it's not that, I just—Mary, come back, I didn't mean—Mary!"

But I'm already walking away, back down the hill and onto High Street. Marlene's name is the first that comes to me, but no, it's too late for us, not after what she said, not after what we've done. Alice is usually a reliable shoulder to lean on, but she wouldn't understand, and she puts up with enough between Sirius and Marlene already; Em, let's face it, wouldn't even care; Lily doesn't know me—does anyone really know me? The Hufflepuffs will no doubt take Reg's side, I've never been close with any of the Ravenclaws, and the Slytherins are obviously out of the question…

Which leaves (oh Merlin) just the Marauders. I don't want to interrupt Peter's date, but the other three—_Zonko's_. The joke shop is crowded enough that few heads turn upon my hysterical arrival, but on the flip side, the boys are out of eyesight. I push my way to the back of the room, where I find them critically eyeing a rack of Dungbombs. Remus and Sirius look fairly disinterested—Remus's family has never been well off, and Sirius must not have much to spare after being disinherited, I realize distantly—but James is toying halfheartedly with one of the bombs and saying to the other two, "They've only just been released… think it'll be too predictable to use these on the Slytherins this early?"

Sirius starts to reply but cuts himself off when he sees me. "Mary? Why aren't you with Cattermole?"

"He dumped me," I say breathily, awkwardly hovering a meter away from them. "I kissed him, and, like, he _dumped_ me."

They exchange glances, obviously dumbfounded. James is the first to react, setting the Dungbomb back on the shelf and resting a careful arm around my shoulders. "Moony, go find Lily and send her up to the dorm, will you?"

"She likes Padfoot better," says Remus unsurely, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

I catch on to James's train of thought, though, and sullenly explain, "Lily's with Marlene."

"Both of you go together, then," decides James, pulling me toward the back corner of the store. "Come on, Mary, there's a passageway back here that'll take us up to that statue of Gregory the Smarmy…"

He doesn't say much when we reach the dorm, just sits with me on one of the beds and keeps his arm around me until Lily comes up. She confers briefly with James; "Thanks," she says when she doesn't think I'm paying attention, and he hugs her close before he goes.

She doesn't sit down. "I've been sleeping up here, you know," says Lily, running her hand over one of the tidier beds. "James is lending me his bed—this one. I've been on Dreamless Sleep Potion since my parents—died—but my supply ran out, and Madam Pomfrey won't give me more… it helps, having James there, but I think I'm moving back to our dormitory tonight. It's time."

"It'll be good to have you back," I say. I mean that—there's something strange about the dorm at night with one of the beds empty.

"Are you all right?" she asks, approaching my bedside.

I shrug. "I guess. I just feel, like, numb… I thought Reg would be different from the other blokes, but to him, I'm still, like, this shallow, self-absorbed…"

"You'll find someone one day," Lily assures me, though her voice shakes a bit. "I thought it was Snape, you thought it was Cattermole… but things don't always turn out how you think they will."

"Yeah," I sigh, "yeah, I guess."

We don't quite know what to say to each other—we've never been too close, and Lily's falling out with Snape hasn't really changed as much as Marlene thinks it has. "It's not fair," I mutter, more to myself than to her, yanking off my wizard's hat in defeat. "I'm not just, like, this blonde bimbo that everyone thinks I am."

Something about her lights up at my words, and she crosses the room to sit beside me. "If you really want people to believe that, Mary, there are a few things you can do."

"Like what?"

"Well, for one thing, orange has never been a good color on you," Lily says, laughing. I twirl a few strands of my hair between my thumb and forefinger, reluctant to actively _do_ anything about it but still seeing her point. I've been looking pretty wretched lately… "And you might want to drop the 'like' from your vocabulary, if you want blokes to take you seriously… I mean, we girls take you seriously, but it doesn't—give the best impression."

I smile, albeit a bit reluctantly—the whole thing with Reg has me rather shaken. "I don't think I can do much about, like, my vocabulary in one day, but for the hair, what do you think? Back to blonde or all natural?"

"I'll leave it for you to decide. It's about time both of us start making our own choices, don't you think?" she says, stretching.

I haven't realized until right here, right now, how long I've been waiting for someone to say that.

* * *

**END OF PART TWO**


	16. November 4th: Remus Lupin

**November 4****th****: Remus Lupin**

"A word, Lupin?"

He's surprised, to say the least—what have any of the Slytherins ever wanted to do with _him_?—but nods politely and follows Damocles Belby out of the classroom. "Interesting meeting," reflects Remus, thinking back. Kingsley may be more charismatic, but he's still insisting that Meadowes run the prefects' meetings, a move Remus considers less and less baffling as time goes by. A grudging sort of respect is forming in her favor, despite Angela Macmillan's sincerest attempts toward the contrary, and it's starting to show why Dumbledore saw a leader in her when he chose her for the post of Head Girl.

"Yeah, interesting," Belby says shortly. He stops Remus at the end of the corridor and turns to him purposefully. "Listen, Lupin—I know what you are."

"You… know," repeats Remus with a shadow of a bemused smile. "If you're talking about Mrs. Norris's camel humps—"

Belby cuts him off, shaking his head, "I didn't mean about Mrs. Norris, although I expect you were in on that, too. The timing is rather cliché, actually, being that Halloween was last Sunday and there's all this circulating Mudblood talk—"

"_Muggle-born_," says Remus, tensing. It's not just about Belby's disrespectfulness, though, it's the Muggle myths and the time of the season and the chill running down his spine and—

"—I'm just surprised I didn't notice sooner," Belby laughs, a cackle in his eyes. "Those haunted spirits in the Shrieking Shack every full moon… And a sick mother? That's the oldest excuse in the book; surely a Marauder in his right mind should come up with something better than that… if it weren't something so taboo it makes all that cleverness just dry up."

Remus watches his feet, the ceiling, the quarter-moon in the window—anything but Belby's face. "What do you want, Belby?"

But Belby isn't listening, not anymore. "I'm sure Macdonald has gathered by now that I'm the top-ranked student in the class."

"Not necessarily," says Remus, starting to flare up. "She's not just a gossip monger, and especially less _now_ than she ever may have been—"

"My best subjects are Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts," Belby continues, "and I've been thinking of a project to combine the two for a while now. Makes it more ironic that I didn't notice your… _affliction_… until recently, but that's all right, it hasn't hurt the timing at all. I've only just come up with a tentative recipe."

"A recipe for what?" demands Remus. Belby's voice is steady, face impassive, but something about the look in his eyes…

He blinks, and the moment is gone, to Remus's relief. "Just a little potion I've been working on," says Belby quietly, "and if I can get the recipe right, your… ah… _furry little problem_, Potter is calling it? …will be nothing but a memory."

A drawn-out pause. Remus's breath shallows with every passing second. "What's the catch?" he asks finally, briskly.

"The catch?" repeats Belby snidely.

"Please, Belby. You wouldn't be telling me all this if there weren't something in it for you more than just fame and glory," Remus reasons.

Belby's eyebrows rise, just barely, and he says, "I'll need a test subject, of course, and there could be—undesirable experimental effects. After, when I release my findings to the public, there will be speculation as to how I tested the potion, and given your monthly whereabouts…"

_He'll have to come out as a werewolf._ He thought he'd give anything for an end to the hell he goes through every month, but to give up his opportunities in exchange… but Belby's already slipping something out of his robe pocket and stuffing it into Remus's hand. "Read the recipe. Think on it. Let me know in Potions tomorrow," offers Belby, adding a little quieter, "You're the only one at Hogwarts, but I get the feeling you're one of the most deserving ones out there, Lupin."

Rattled, Lupin leaves with a compliant nod and heads back to his dormitory. He doesn't plan to tell the blokes—he can barely wrap his head around it, yet he knows it's something he needs to work out for himself—and to his suiting, a Lily-tirade is in full swing when Remus enters the room. "I can't figure her out," James moans, rolling onto his stomach to bury his face in the bedspread. "She drove me away after her parents died, but_ no_, she can't bear to spend a minute away from me after she and Snape have a row—"

"Does that really _disappoint_ you, mate?" says Sirius skeptically, adding a quick "'lo, Moony" as Remus crosses to his bed. "I would think you'd want to be on her good side."

"I _do_, that's not it—basically the same thing happens twice, and her reactions are completely different. Push me away, let me in," James laments. "It's like I can't ever tell what will get her to like me and what won't, like one of these days she'll decide to hate me for a month because I have the wrong reaction to something she says…"

"Shouldn't you just capitalize on it now before you eff it up, then?" Sirius suggests (Remus shoot shim a reprimanding look as he flips open a textbook for bedtime reading). He's smearing chocolate all over his bed—Lily only moved back to the girls' dorm three days ago, and already Sirius is back to eating at inane hours.

James's eyes flash dangerously. "She's not just an _object_, Padfoot. I care more about her feelings than to treat her like, oh, the way you treat _McKinnon_, with that whole shag-and-drop cycle of yours…"

Sirius opens his mouth to protest, but Peter cuts in warningly, "It's over now, anyway, Prongs. She's fighting off Lockhart now, isn't she?"

"It's different than it was last year," James goes on, his temperament gradually subsiding. "She's not just some bird with red hair and a suspicious social life anymore to me. She's… Lily's my mate now, too, and I have to think about that. I'm happy for that. She's so…"

"Will you think it encouraging if I tell you you're much more articulate when she's in the room?" Remus says with a laugh; James scowls but says nothing further.

It all seems so _normal_, away from Belby, even with the full moon less than two days away; his pulse is easing, the color is flooding back into his cheeks. He's breathing again by the next morning as he heads to breakfast with the Marauders, snickering as they meet a deranged-looking Filch in the stairwell. "It's only a matter of time before they catch us, you know," Remus warns the others as they pass him, his voice satisfyingly unwavering. "Belby looked a bit suspicious of me at the prefects' meeting last night."

"Relax, Moony," says Sirius jovially, throwing open the doors to the Great Hall, "you're getting paranoid again. Sitting with Lily again, Prongs?"

"Where else?" says James, closing his eyes as he hugs her from behind—she's studying her Defense notes from yesterday and bats him away, but only halfheartedly. Remus gives an awkward little wave to the other girls at the table and takes his usual place between Sirius and Emmeline, reaching to heap omelets onto his plate.

Mary is the first to greet the boys, albeit through a mouthful of eggs. She's gotten mellower these last few weeks, ever since Cattermole left her, Remus has noticed—less nosy, though just as outgoing as before. Her hair is red today, though not as striking a shade as Lily's—to Remus's understanding, she's switched to Glamour Charms for now. "Potions for you lot today, right?" she asks. "I'm, like, _so_ glad I dropped it this year… Slughorn is such a waste of time."

"Since Witch Weekly is so much more important than an education," says Emmeline dryly from behind her copy of the _Daily Prophet_.

Mary rolls her eyes. "Shut it, Em, you dropped it, too," she chides. "Besides, I'm cancelling my subscription, so don't even act like—"

"You're _cancelling_ it? Where am I supposed to read it now?" interrupts Marlene, appalled.

"I can get Greta's or Ver's for you when they finish," says Mary. "They read pretty fast, and, like, they'll only need one copy after, anyway. Since when do you read _Witch Weekly_, Lene?"

"What, you haven't been wondering where all your old magazines have been disappearing to for the last two years?" says Marlene with a sheepish grin. "Merlin, how daft—"

Remus breaks in hastily, asking, "How are your patrols going, Alice? The success of Meadowes's term as Head Girl practically depends on how this goes…"

"I should be asking you that," says Alice, running her fingers through her hair. "I get to go patrol with Frank; meanwhile, they gave you Regulus."

"Oh, it's not that bad—really, Padfoot, it isn't," insists Remus at Sirius's bristling. "He's not the best company, I'll admit, but he's perfectly agreeable, at least for now. Belby…"

Peter says, "What is it with you and Belby today, Moony? First Mrs. Norris, now—"

"_You_ gave her the camel humps?" says Marlene, snickering.

Remus sets down his goblet with a nervous clatter. "We, er, had something of a run-in after the prefects' meeting last night… don't worry, it was nothing," he dismisses, feeling rather harried.

Sirius raises his eyebrows as Peter furrows his, but Remus shakes his head, mouthing promises of later explanations. He glances at James, expecting similar disbelief, only to find the Marauder ringleader engrossed in conversation with one Lily Evans.

"Smitten, isn't he?" Emmeline's comment echoes his thoughts, and Remus nods, shrugging. "It's all right, though, it'll blow over. It's only love."

Remus swivels in his seat to take a good look at her—he hasn't really seen her in a while, he realizes. There's something clairvoyant about the puffy grey rings under her clouded eyes; the way her wispy hair silvers and thins by the week… "_Only_ love?" Remus repeats, lifting his goblet again.

"That was rhetorical, you know," remarks Emmeline, delicately raising a fork to her lips.

It takes him a little too long to think of something suitable, for before he has a chance to wheedle any conversation out of her, Alice pushes away her plate and rises. "Potions starts in a quarter of an hour, and I don't want to be late. Let's go."

To buy time, he prods at his omelet and sighs. At the thought of seeing Belby again—the morning has passed too fast, he thinks—his stomach churns. "You know, Alice, I think I'll ditch today. That Halloween party last Saturday was enough Slughorn for one week. I'll meet you lot in the common room later?"

His decision attracts even Lily and James's attention: he may be a Marauder, but he, _Remus_, is the one who rarely misses a class, at least not without provocation from the others. "You serious, mate?" says Peter. "You're usually the one dragging _them_ to Potions…"

"Dead serious. I've got some research I wanted to work in the library anyway," Remus confirms, a vague plan forming. "Will you tell Slughorn I'm not feeling well or something?"

"But Moony—" He's halfway across the Great Hall by the time he hears Sirius's protests. It wasn't a lie—he has research to do, though not necessarily of the academic sort. He digs around in his pocket for a certain tattered sheaf of parchment as he half-jogs to the library, barely nodding to Madam Pince as he heads toward that juncture of the reference section where _Potions_, _Herbology_, and _Defense Against the Dark Arts_ meet.

It must have been hell for Belby to try to write this. Books tell of defeating werewolves only from the outside, never from within, and Remus can see the crossed-out instructions where Belby blurred this line between destruction and remedy. The parchment bears far more mistakes than it does instructions, it seems, and the final product isn't much more promising. "Devil's Snare clippings? Does he want to _murder_ me?" Remus whispers, tracing a finger over the inky page.

"Not likely." He hits his head on the shelf above him, he's so startled—but it's (_only?_) Regulus Black, who's crouching to face Remus even as Remus's temple throbs on impact. "If there's one thing you can trust about Belby, it's that he'll put his own glory over your misfortune. Risk going to Azkaban for attempted murder—and lose all those years of his life? Even breaking out one day would seem like a waste of effort to him, and then he'd be a runaway, what could he accomplish then? Even if he weren't caught, then, it would only be because he passed it off as a mistake, and to him that's even worse than admitting to crime—admitting to getting it wrong."

"Some friend you are to him," mutters Remus, hastily stowing away the recipe.

Regulus's smile fades after only a moment. "Slytherins don't make friends, just allies. So what's so wrong with you that you've got Belby, of all people, working on it?" he asks.

"You'll find out if he succeeds, won't you?" Remus retorts. More than anything, he's surprised that Belby didn't spill the beans on his lycanthropy.

"So he wasn't just being a secretive arse when he wouldn't say what he's doing with you," Regulus muses. He chuckles—it sounds sinister to Remus—and rests on his haunches. "No class this period?"

"Skipped it. This is more pressing," says Remus. "Where are your cronies?"

Regulus snorts full on at this, leaning against the bookshelf for support. "We patrol together twice a month, Lupin, you should know by now that I don't do cronies. My brother didn't ditch with you?"

"He doesn't know about this," Remus admits.

"So you haven't told your best mates but don't try to hide it from their foes." Silence. "If you don't mind me asking something, Lupin, why do you talk to me like a-a—"

"Like a human being?" Remus fills in, shutting him up. "Like more than a shell of a wizard training in the Dark Arts? _Not_ like my mate's pesky little brother who, somewhere along the line, went astray?" His voice cracks a bit—he feels weary, here with Regulus, squatting on the library floor. "Don't take it as a compliment, Black, I don't think any better of you than I did two months ago."

Regulus snorts. "What makes you think I was out for your approval? I was just wondering, 's all."

"Is that what you told Padfoot when he found out you met with the Death Eaters? That you were _just wondering_ what it was all about?" snaps Remus, casting aside the books in his lap and rising.

He's hit a nerve—he can see a tic throbbing in Regulus's temple—but he doesn't care, not when he's been dealing with these patrols for weeks now as politely as he could, and not said one word in Sirius's defense, not _one_; and now Belby knows and he has to choose, relief or opportunity, how is he supposed to _choose_—did he ever really think he could keep going like this without anyone finding out? He has to do it, he realizes: it hardly matters whether it's Belby or himself that's a danger to him, and if he refuses for the privacy, it's not like it would last long. A sick mum won't get you out of a marriage or a night shift, after all.

He has half a mind to go to Potions and catch the second half of class, but in his state of mind, that's probably not a wise idea. "Tell Belby to meet me outside the prefect's bathroom after dinner tonight," he says bitterly over his shoulder, and he heads back to the common room, collapsing wearily into an armchair with his Gryffindor mates the minute he spots them. "I had a run-in with Regulus in the library," he says darkly when Peter glances at him, alarmed.

"You don't want to talk about it?" Peter empathizes. Emmeline and Mary don't seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary: they're engrossed in their copies of _Unfogging the Future_ and _Remedial Numerology: A Flourish and Blotts Recommended Guide_, respectively.

Remus just nods, sinking in his seat. His muscles ache with anticipation of the coming moon, but this is no time to let his guard time—there's _never_ a time to let his guard down, not while he's living with lycanthropy. He's learned to conceal it, for the most part, so that no one thinks anything of his visits to his sick mother; but then Belby came along and…

* * *

It's later, Divination—they're reading crystal balls again, since Dumbledore refuses to hire an incompetent replacement for their last professor, and Sinistra's substitute teaching doesn't include a rigorous lesson plan. Remus sits on a pouf between Peter and Emmeline and tries to stop imagining a full moon in the orb. He doesn't think they notice his pallid face and shaking hands: Emmeline is intensely focused on her divining as always, and Peter's face is reddening with effort as he struggles to see anything at all. And all the better—he doesn't want their attention, not today.

He hates what the moon does to him. It's not that he thinks ill of himself for it, not at all—he's talented, likable, at the top of the class. And yet there's always this _thing_ inside him, eating at his glory, which, if discovered, could take it all away. Fiscal success hinges on secrecy, and as for his relationships—well, he hasn't forgotten what almost happened to Severus Snape last year, and it still turns his stomach over to think of it. Having his mates there with him for the transformations… it thrills him, comforts him, but terrifies him.

And this potion—this potion could end all that, couldn't it? At least the part of it that's most important to Remus: he'd no longer be a danger to his friends, to a girlfriend or wife or child one day. Sure, he'd have to be careful to take it regularly, but it's not like he would _forget_ to stop himself from turning into a beast once a month. He wouldn't have to treat himself as a threat anymore—he'd still be _different_, but he wouldn't be dangerous, and he can't think of a greater relief.

But oh, the _circumstances_ of it! From the looks of the recipe, Belby has a long way to go before he'll get it right, and that means a lot of trials and a lot of full moons after which Remus might not wake up. He can't have the Marauders there to help him through it, obviously—Belby can't find out, and he doesn't want to put them in danger (it's such a _burden_ to be a danger)—so he'll be more agitated than usual as it is, let alone the experimental side effects and potential failure that the potion may have. And if, pray tell, Belby gets it right before they graduate, suspicion will doubtlessly fall on Remus as the test subject; no one else enrolled has as questionable a background. His career choices after _they_ find out…

"All right, Moony? You look a little pale," whispers Peter feverishly. Remus starts and glances over: he's had no luck with his fortune telling, it seems, and he's eyeing Remus with empathy and concern.

He forces a smile, if only because Emmeline's glancing at them from behind her orb. "Er, yeah, I'm fine, Wormtail, thanks," he says in a rush, "but I have to talk to you and the other blokes after class about something, all right? It's important."

Peter quirks an eyebrow but says nothing dissentient; Emmeline's gaze flicks away again. "Thanks, mate," mutters Remus bashfully, and he sinks so that his eyes are level with the crystal ball, resting his chin on the table. For once, the moon isn't staring back.

He doesn't tell them what's going on, not honestly. "You—can't come with me tomorrow," he tells them brokenly in the dorm after class is over, all sweaty palms and throbbing heart.

A cacophony of protests meets his words from the boys, a mixture of confusion and defiance. "But that's _ridiculous_! Are you mental?" demands Sirius, the loudest of the three, but he doesn't quite drown out Peter ("Why not, Moony, did something happen?") or James ("Who the hell are you to tell me what I can and can't do for you?").

"Merlin, am I the only one here who remembers the time Snape almost got himself killed because of me? And don't get defensive about it, Padfoot, I'm not putting blame on you," he adds hastily, "but it wouldn't have been an issue if we weren't frolicking around the grounds making _threats_ of ourselves. There was that time with the Slytherin fourth years, and I know for a fact that Hagrid's getting suspicious." He crosses his arms and fidgets a little—he means it, but he's still _lying_, and he's never been good at keeping things from his mates.

"Those twerpy little Death Eater wannabes had it coming, and can't we just Confound Hagrid to get around that?" says Sirius, still fuming a bit.

James interjects warningly, "Don't get carried away, Padfoot, you don't want that on your record."

"Listen, I can handle it on my own," Remus insists as forcibly as he can, which isn't very. "I did fine without you lot for fifteen years; it won't kill me to go on like this a little more. Just take a few months to prioritize, yeah? Keep in mind that the next person isn't going to be Snape."

Peter suggests quietly, "Why don't we just transform in the shack with you and keep you company down there? It wouldn't feel right to leave you all alone."

Remus freezes, gaping. He hadn't thought of that, and he can't exactly accept their offer, not without them finding out about Belby—and he doesn't want to know what sorts of opinions or interference they would have in the matter. "No," he says feebly, frantically racking his brain for an excuse. "No, you can't; I won't let you."

"But Moony—" begins James impatiently.

"Don't think I don't know what kinds of scars you end up with after one night with me," Remus improvises, hoping his face won't give him away. "Lily Evans does a damn good job concealing them, but—"

"Lily doesn't just _conceal_ them, she heals them," snaps Sirius. "It's good as new by the time she's done."

Remus shakes his head, thinking wildly. "And one of these days it'll be too big a wound for her, or she won't get to you in time, or—no. You can't, not for the next few times, and I'm not taking no for an answer."

And he doesn't: his voice shakes, but his resolve is firm, and they've grudgingly agreed by the end of the conversation. They catch the last half-hour of dinner with the girls, then disperse for the night: Peter with Siobhan, Emmeline with Maggie McKinnon, the rest together in the common room. Remus, though, breaks off from the pack after a few minutes and heads into his dormitory, breathing quickly.

He doesn't have much time. Rummaging through James's trunk and trying not to feel like he's a terrible mate, Remus pulls out the Invisibility Cloak and stuffs it in his bag, then shoves in a few books for good measure and hurries out of the tower. Belby—if there's anything good about him, he's dependable—is pacing outside the door as directed, his eyes slanted and suspicious when his gaze falls on Remus. "You're late," he accuses, pausing to lean against the corridor wall.

"If it turns out that I show you what was slowing me down, you'll feel lucky I came late," dismisses Remus before he gives the password for the bathroom. He's worked up from the earlier confrontation and isn't afraid of another one. "Get in."

Belby darts inside with him and locks the door behind them. "I take it this means you're on board?" he prompts, arrogance laced through his voice.

For a moment, Remus just looks dumbly back at him; then he says scathingly, "You think I'm going to trust you on this, just like that? Merlin, Belby—Devil's Snare clippings, Alihosty leaves, infusion of silver? What the hell were you smoking when you came up with this?"

"If you knew a thing about potion-making, you'd realize that the essence of belladonna reacts antagonistically with the Alihosty and reverses it to cause serenity instead of hysteria, and the asphodel acts as a sedative so that the Devil's Snare can take proper effect," retorts Belby, not missing a beat. "The Devil's Snare, when ingested, isn't what kills you—the overdose of naturally produced adrenaline is. Prevent that, and the clippings, guided by the silver and newt's eye, should counteract the lycanthropic brain cells activated by the full moon—you'll remain in a wolf's body, but your mind will be your own."

Remus quiets, blushing hard. "Mudbloods are good for one thing: sometimes, their sciences play a part in wizardry," whispers Belby with a hint of a smirk. "Still have doubts? Or are you bold enough to question the one here with a background in chemistry?"

"If you haven't thought this through, it could _kill_ me," says Remus, dropping his voice. "I know you're conceited enough that you wouldn't care that I'd be dead, but don't you realize what would happen to your career when they found out it was you?"

"Yes," Belby says steadily. "So are you on board?"

After another pause, Remus pulls out the Cloak and thrusts it at Belby. "This is an Invisibility Cloak. Use it to sneak out of the castle at around ten o'clock tomorrow night, then go to the Whomping Willow—prod the knot on the trunk with a stick; it'll freeze the tree long enough for you to get in the passageway that leads to the Shrieking Shack. Ten o'clock, Belby, after that I might have transformed already by the time you get there. Bring the potion with you."

"You're a righteous little bastard, aren't you, Lupin?" asks Belby drippily.

He scowls and slams the door on his way out.

The next morning, Remus checks himself into the Hospital Wing and gets through the day on Madam Pomfrey's store of Dreamless Sleep Potion. He's tense and alert when the dose dries up at quarter to nine, so he coerces Pomfrey to take him to the Shrieking Shack earlier than necessary and waits it out. Any last-minute doubts he has he shakes off: it's too late to waver.

Belby comes promptly, though it feels like eternity has passed twice over by the time he arrives. He's got the Invisibility Cloak in a bundle under his arm and a glass vial squeezed in his hand. "Drink up," he says icily, tossing Remus the vial; it slices through the air on its trajectory before he catches it. "Anywhere you want me to stash this on the way out?" he adds, hoisting up the Cloak a little.

"There's a bedroom that way," says Remus, pointing; "leave it in there, and lock the door just in case."

Belby nods curtly and readies his wand toward him. "What are you doing?" says Remus sharply, backing away with the vial in his hand.

"You think I'll just give you an untested potion and then _leave_ you here?" laughs Belby incredulously. "I have to stay to track your progress first—immobilize you if it doesn't work, revive you if it backfires. It would be irresponsible not to monitor your transformation."

"Of course," mutters Remus. "Here's to hoping you're as brilliant as they all seem to think."

He gulps down the potion and waits for the moon to come out to play.


	17. November 7th: Marlene McKinnon

**November 7****th****: Marlene McKinnon**

She must have dreamt about him afterward, because when she's stirring a little and still half-asleep, she can already feel the shame of (what?) bubbling in her stomach. It only takes a few more moments and a grunt from the body beside her, though, to remind her what she did, where she is—where _is_ she? Hoisting herself up by the elbows, Marlene's surprised, then shocked, to feel blankets slipping down her chest and a mattress creaking beneath her. She isn't—she couldn't have—

Bugger.

Losing her resolve was mistake enough; she knows better to do it in his _dormitory_. It's too personal, too intimate, to mix in pillows and pajamas and Quidditch posters tacked up on the headboard and roommates—oh, Merlin, Black better have made sure they would be alone in here, else she won't be able to hold her head up anymore. Marlene reaches down and feels around on the floor for whatever she was wearing last night (she's not going to take the walk of shame with his blankets draped around her, she's _not_), and she's relieved when her hand hits her dressing gown. Only after she's donned it does she dare open the curtains and check whether they have company.

They do—not Lupe, he's with his mother tonight, but J and Pete are snoring away in their respective beds. She gathers her undergarments and hightails the hell out of there before either of them wakes. What time is it, anyway? After miraculously finding her watch in the pocket of the dressing gown, Marlene checks and sees that it's quarter to six in the morning: too late to go back to bed, too early to find Lily and sort herself out. All she wants is to curl up in bed, her _own_ bed, and go back to sleep and forget that she slipped up again, after all these weeks of staying strong; but she doesn't think she can face the girls, not yet, not _ever_.

So Marlene makes a break for the nearest bathroom and takes the hottest shower she can stand. She can't scrub away that effing _shame_ that's filling her up and boiling her over, but clearing her head and remembering… she can't say it helps, but at least she isn't blocking it out. It isn't the sex itself that bothers Marlene—she's maybe a little sore, now that it's over, but otherwise all right—it's the implications, the what-did-I-do and the where-do-I-go-from-here.

Their pattern is misleading. She quickly cycles through their history: he approaches her, she accepts him, she has enough and cuts him off until the next time. Only Marlene's the needy one, and Black rejects her over and over, every day, every minute. It's not about who kissed whom first, it's about how he can't even look her in the eye until it's over, and then he just _sneers_ at her like she's served her purpose and walks away for the rest of the day, or two, or ten—however long until he's ready again. Her power over him is only an illusion: it's Black who decides whether he has any use for her.

She knows, too, that they're not exclusive. Marlene may not date other blokes, but he doesn't try to hide his flings from her; more often than not, she'll taste Veronica Smethley's lip-gloss or smell Dana Madley's perfume on him when they meet. She has every right to give him up, humiliate him, even—so _why_ does she apologize between kisses for the nights they spend apart?

But last night—it was different, in part because she'd gone longer without him, but also because of the interest he showed in her. Less like his usual detachment and borderline apathy, more like the time it all started in fourth year. He held her back in the common room long after everyone else had gone up to bed—Merlin, she's remembering now—just studying and trading the occasional comment. And then Black told her (_what did he say?_) Moony didn't need him anymore, and he was looking at her properly for the first time in weeks, and her breath caught in her throat, and he crossed the room and leaned in over her so they were nose to nose, and he paused to breathe her in for a moment, and then—

Downhill from there. Marlene shuts out the details, knowing she isn't ready to recall them just yet (ever). But he took her up to his _dormitory_ when it wasn't empty, there was a first, and he stayed after—she's not sure what to make of that. He always dusts himself off and leaves her hanging after, _always_, but last night… last night was different.

Marlene turns off the water abruptly and steps out of the shower, toweling herself off. Suddenly, it doesn't seem to matter whether Lily is still in bed or not—she's in for a rude awakening.

But Lily isn't there when Marlene braves the dorm, just Mary and Em fast asleep and Alice rummaging through her trunk for a fresh pair of robes. "Where's Lily?" she asks immediately, standing stricken in the doorway.

"I don't know," says Alice wearily. Upon closer inspection, she looks exhausted—Marlene isn't the only one who didn't get much sleep last night, it seems. "She never came to bed, not that you would know. Where were _you_ last night?"

"Nowhere," says Marlene, but Alice doesn't seem convinced. "Look, Alice, I really don't need you to get all prefect on my arse right now, so if you're not going to help me find Lily—"

Pulling out a pair of robes and slamming her trunk shut, Alice interrupts, "You weren't with Lockhart or anything like that, were you? Because I don't think I can handle that big of a judgment lapse from you today."

"No, I wasn't with Lockhart," she sighs. Alice buys it and, to Marlene's relief, doesn't ask anything further. "What's got you so riled up this early in the morning?"

"It's half past six," Alice points out.

"It's a Sunday," counters Marlene.

Alice accepts this, pulling her robes over her head and rising. "It's really nothing," she says with a faint blush. "I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier, it's just… I thought you had been with Lockhart or something, and I found out after dinner last night that, er, the bloke I fancy has a girlfriend."

"Oh. I'm sorry, mate," says Marlene, paling—she can't tell her about Black, especially knowing this. She's talking about Frank Longbottom, Marlene's sure, but she doesn't ask for details. "Lockhart, though, _really_? I'm not desperate enough to shag Mare's exes, Alice, I thought you knew me better than that."

Alice laughs, a tinkling little giggle that she hides behind her hand. "I dunno; the two of you always look so cozy in Herbology."

Snorting, Marlene answers, "Right, because Mary replacing Cattermole with him in our group and him hitting on me all hour is criteria for 'looking cozy.'"

Alice shakes her head and smiles. "I'm going to head down to breakfast; would you like to come?" she asks.

"I'd better not; I have a few things to take care of. If you see Lily, can you tell her I'm looking for her?" Marlene says. Alice nods her assent and gives her a little wave as she departs.

She has nothing to take care of—except maybe the regret in the pit of her stomach, but it's not like she _can_ do anything about that—so she shuts the hangings around her four-poster, curls up under the covers, and waits for a distraction.

It comes, finally, when Em wakes up—no, she's fully dressed and slamming the dormitory door; Marlene must have been out longer than she thought. "Get up," Em says flatly, parting the hangings on Marlene's four-poster. "Lily wants to see you. She's in the Hospital Wing."

"Merlin! Is she all right?" cries Marlene, starting.

She's across the room and half-dressed before Em corrects her with a smug little smile. "Just fine. She's visiting Remus. I believe he… had a little turbulence on the flight to see his mum last night?"

Scowling, Marlene slams the lid of her trunk. "Since when does Lupe own a broomstick, let alone fly well enough to get to Wales with it once a month?"

"You can ask him yourself; they're both asking for you," says Em smoothly.

Kicking on her shoes, Marlene says, "All right, I'm ready. You coming?"

She shakes her head. "I have Divination to study. Give Remus my regards."

So Marlene heads alone to the Hospital Wing, feeling just as dizzy as she did at the start of this damn morning. Distracted as she is, she nearly gets caught in two trick stairwells and takes a couple of wrong turns before she finally knocks into—oh, _Merlin_, she doesn't have the patience for this—!

"If it isn't Marlene McKinnon! Was it my angelic poise and stature that threw you off balance?" Stepping back, Gilderoy Lockhart beams down at her from an impressive height of 190 centimeters, plucking a flyaway strand of hair back into place as he tries to strike a handsome pose.

"Your familiarity with the word 'stature' certainly throws me," Marlene says to herself, biting back a number of louder, snider comments.

Lockhart conveniently doesn't catch this. "Where to, darling?"

"Away from you," she retorts.

"The Great Hall for a late breakfast it is!" Lockhart declares, seizing her hand and leading her down the stairs with a prance that Marlene assumes must resemble a Muggle model's runway walk. She tries to recoil, but Lockhart will have none of it and doesn't bother to loosen his grip. "Have you given any thought to coming to the Quidditch game next weekend with me?"

"Why would I have?" asks Marlene.

He continues, as if uninterrupted, "The odds are in Gryffindor's favor, the whole school's been saying it, and as this is the only match of the season where you won't have to worry about Hufflepuff knocking you out of the running… I'm on the reserve team, did you know? Rumor has it I'll be the team Seeker next year if Benjy decides to switch to Keeper." Lockhart's chest swells with pride at this point, and he squeezes her limp hand a bit tighter.

Marlene can't help but roll her eyes. "How rude that Fenwick can't be bothered to confirm this himself to his protégé."

"Ah, well, you can't blame a bloke," says Lockhart, grinning. "Believe me, I'd be his closest confidant—"

"Again, the extent of your vocabulary amazes me," Marlene mutters.

"—If he weren't so taken with Elisabeth Clearwater. She's always been a charming one, not that she has anything on you," he adds with a wink. "Quidditch team captain and Benjy's fellow prefect—it's no wonder they spend so much time together! Benjy's a decent Seeker, though he can't quite compare to my natural talent on a broomstick—he'll be much better suited to Keeper next year, I reckon.

"But Hufflepuff still has it in the bag this season under Elisabeth's direction, don't you think?" Lockhart muses. "I can't imagine how Ravenclaw will win a single match with Charlotte Fawcett Captaining, and Meadowes and Black can't compensate for the lacking abilities of the rest of the Slytherin team. Sorry to say, the same goes for Gryffindor's talent pool this year, I'm afraid—"

She'll be damned if Lockhart, of all people, can get off saying that about her team. "Oh, have you forgotten about Meghan McCormack? Professional scouts have tagged her as a candidate for the British team at the World Cup already, and she's only a fifth year."

"We've got her brother, Kirley," Lockhart points out smugly.

"Or the Prewetts? Gideon's got to be the best Captain Hogwarts has seen in years, turning the Gryffindor team around like that, and he and Fabian together are a force to be reckoned with," Marlene continues.

He smiles. "You say that like Elisabeth hasn't done the same for Hufflepuff! Don't be silly, dear. Besides, he and Fabian are hardly an unstoppable team. Have you ever considered that Fabian might be leaking information through Meadowes to the Slytherins?"

"Fabian's above that. Hell, _Meadowes_ is above that," says Marlene heatedly. "All your Chasers combined have nothing on James Potter, and with what they're saying about that new Beater, Anna Moon—"

Lockhart interrupts dismissively, "Ah, well, only time will tell. Can you see now why _this_ is the match to attend with me? All that rivalry will be out in the open after Hufflepuff's first game!"

They've reached the Great Hall, to Marlene's relief. Lockhart makes to enter with her, but she sharply pulls away. "You know, Lockhart—"

"Darling, call me Gilly," he insists.

Thoroughly disgruntled, she fights to keep her temper under control. "I don't think I'm that hungry after all. Say hello to my brother Matt if you see him, will you? He's a first year Hufflepuff—really short, can't miss him—"

Setting off again for the Hospital Wing, she simply chooses to ignore the shouts of "Quidditch! Think about it!" at her receding figure. Her frustration with Lockhart is gradually replaced by the lingering confusion of earlier until she winds up at Madam Pomfrey's door. She throws it open without knocking and scans the room for Lily's red hair; not finding it, she doesn't wait for permission to dart to the only bedside with closed hangings.

Lily starts a little; Lupe, covered in blue-green bruises and sporting a black eye, gives a weak half-wave. "You look horrible," Marlene blurts out on instinct, not bothering to be considerate. "Turbulence? Are you _joking_? You can't even fly!"

"I know that now. It was a dare from the blokes; believe me, I'm not going to take another go at it next month," he mutters, not looking nearly as abashed as Marlene thinks he ought to. He keeps glancing over at Lily, whose face is etched with concern.

"Arses," Marlene dismisses, "the lot of them." She takes a seat beside Lily, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the mattress. "Shouldn't they be down here begging for your forgiveness?"

Lily says, "James and Peter were here earlier, but Madam Pomfrey threw them out. I haven't seen Sirius, though, and they said they haven't talked to him since last night…"

Marlene's stomach gives an unpleasant lurch. "About that."

There's a long, uncomfortable pause. She can't bear to look at either of them, so she bows her head and fiddles with the hem of her robes, a hot blush spreading across her cheeks, down her neck. "You didn't," Lily finally says, her voice sounding strangled.

"Lily, Lupe went through enough last night; I really don't think he needs to—"

"Remus can take it," Lily interrupts, tensing. "Merlin knows you need to learn to own up to your mistakes. So you gave in again?"

She pleads, "It was more than that! It didn't seem like he was just using me again, it was—Merlin, I woke up in his _dormitory_ this morning, do you know how hard it must have been for him to bring me up there and then to find I was already gone when he got up? And he said—he said…"

_Moony doesn't need me anymore._

"You're lying, aren't you?" She rounds on Lupe, who just blinks back at her through swollen eyes. "You didn't fall off a broomstick; if all you did was fall off a broomstick, Madam Pomfrey would have healed all the bruising by now. It wasn't a dare. Whatever you did last night, Black didn't want you to be doing it, it was dangerous, you were doing it without them, you…"

They're all a little scared by now, Marlene reckons—at least, she expects that she's not the only one feeling dizzy and hot and seeing stars. Marlene wonders, did Lupe even go to see his mum last night? Is she even ill? How many damned secrets _are_ there in this school, and for what?

Lily's voice shakes when she intervenes, "Remus took a dare from his mates last night to fly to see his mum, and because he's not a good flier, it landed him in the Hospital Wing. Remus goes to see his mum about once a month because she's sick, the Healers don't know how much time she has left, and it makes her happy to see him—"

"Broomsticks don't do _that_ to you," says Marlene.

Quietly, Lupe says, "You can't tell anyone. Please, Marlene, it's too big to explain it to you, and it's not safe for anyone to suspect anything, all right?"

She nods slowly, seeing Lily relax out the corner of her eye. "I'll keep quiet," she agrees. "But Merlin, Lupe—I've known you for going on six years now, I'm one of your best mates, we've trusted each other with so much before—you didn't even _know_ Lily before last summer, how does it work that she knows what you're up to and I don't?"

"She wasn't supposed to find out," says Lupe wearily. "Too many people know already. Please, just let it go, it isn't about whether or not I trust you."

She gives him a long look. "All right," Marlene finally consents, though she knows she can't quite let it go, "but you're not just getting off scot-free. And you can't talk to anyone about me and Black, and that includes J and Pete."

"Of course I won't," he says, easing himself deeper into the pillows. "I owe you one, Marlene. You have no idea what it means to me."

"A hell of a lot, I should hope," she says darkly.

Lily breaks the ensuing silence by awkwardly clearing her throat. "If we're done here, I'd better get going; I have to be at the Ministry in half an hour for my internship. I think this is the month I'll finally get to go to France, so I can't start making a bad impression or anything by showing up late."

"Yeah, of course. Good luck," says Marlene not entirely sincerely. Lily lets it slide, though, parting the curtains to go with a little wave to them both.

She starts to make small talk, but judging by the look on Lupe's face, he has other ideas. So Marlene patiently waits, fiddling with the edge of her robes, until he finally asks, "How do you girls stand it?"

"How do we stand what? Blokes? Menstruation? The societal prejudice against us?" she prompts, readying herself for a feminist rant.

Lupe gives a half-smile and shakes his head. "The gossip. The things you concern yourselves with… take you and Padfoot, for example. You have sex sometimes—so what? Not that how he treats you is acceptable," he adds hastily, "but—that's really your biggest problem, sex? And look at Mary, she's changing her whole life and outlook around over her hair color, a bit of makeup, and one bloke. Then there's Lily—Merlin, I would be a wreck if that had happened to _my_ parents, but half the time, it's like she's more worried about Prongs and Snape than the fact that she's an orphan." By the time he's done talking, he looks exhausted, depleted; he twists his lips a bit and tugs at his blankets, but he doesn't quite have the strength to pull them up any further.

So Marlene leans in and tucks them around his shoulders, not meeting his eyes as she replies, "It's not just a bit of gossip. I reckon we're all at least a bit shallow—except Em, not that I understand her—but it's more than that, it's…" She trails off, searching for words. "We're not thick, you know. We know there's a war going on out there, that people are dying—but you can't waste away half your life worrying about it. There's nothing we can do—at least, not yet—" He quirks an eyebrow, but she doesn't elaborate. "—So you worry about blokes and Glamour Charms instead, because at least that's doable, you have control of that. It may not matter as much in the long run, but since you can't change the world… nobody in this school is important enough to change the world yet, none of the students, anyway. You really think Lily _wants_ to dwell on her problems, or that Mary _wants_ people to compare her to Veronica Smethley all the time?"

"But she's nothing like Smethley," says Lupe, his forehead creasing in a frown. "Yeah, they're mates, but that doesn't mean they have much in common other than _Witch Weekly_. Smethley's not half as good a person, for one thing."

Marlene sighs. "I know that, and you know that, but are you naïve enough to think that anyone can see that about her other than the Gryffindor sixth years when she's running around spreading rumors every chance she gets? People don't care about _people_ very often, Lupe, they just care about themselves and say everyone else is a bitch until proven otherwise. Look at us—we do the same thing with Smethley's lot, don't we? Even with the Slytherins."

Lupe goes rigid; she can feel it through the mattress. "They're not necessarily awful people, and maybe some of them aren't little Death Eaters in training, but I don't trust their motives. They ended up in that house for a reason. Resourceful and cunning…"

"Do the Slytherins have anything to do with how you got here?" she asks softly.

Panic lines the contours of his face. "Not directly," Lupe mumbles.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I can't," he says, looking pained. "Believe me, it's not the kind of thing you want to involve yourself in. If things were different…"

Marlene smiles weakly. "There's enough already in my life that no one should want to involve themselves in. Just think about it, yeah?"

Closing his eyes, Lupe answers, "Maybe someday."

She tells herself she'll leave when she's sure he must be asleep, but when his breathing has been steady for at least a quarter of an hour, she still hasn't budged. Lupe is kind and strong and everything she's not, but at least for the next few days, this is all he'll amount to—a bruised mess struggling to recover. Maybe this is all anyone amounts to on the inside, Marlene thinks; maybe she doesn't have to throw in the towel because she ran away from home and she's lying about her father and she's letting Black use her and Dumbledore—

Marlene hasn't been able to stop thinking about his offer. Oh, Marlene has _tried_ to put it out of her mind, knowing that she has another year and a half before she'll have a chance to accept it, but the idea that she doesn't have to make the Auror program to do something about Voldemort's forces is an enticing one. It pains her a little to think it'll make her more like Doc, but then, she can't blame him for not being the most involved father in the wizarding world. He's lived the last sixteen years as though he only had a daughter on Christmas and her birthday at Mum's request; he can't be expected to turn his life around when Marlene unexpectedly chose to move into his flat.

There are _so many stigmas_ she's caught between—bastard child, teenage slut—that it's no one's fault if her family's not perfect. And her parents love her, she knows that, even though Mum doesn't understand her and Doc is never around. At least, Marlene figures, she's not in Lily's shoes with no place to go but someone else's bachelor pad, or horribly disfigured and lying in a hospital bed like Lupe.

Glancing away, she checks her watch—lunch is nearly over—and casts one last look at Lupe's broken figure before she goes.

Although this train-wreck of a day has her stomach twisting too much to eat, she has nowhere better to go than the Great Hall, so she takes a deep breath and steps through the doors. Who will even _be_ here to shield her from Black? Almost everyone has an internship, except the two of them, Lupe—he's out of commission, obviously—and—Em isn't even _in_ the hall. Of course.

It's too late to back out now—she's reached her usual seat at the Gryffindor table. Black glances up from his overflowing plate, then instantly looks away. "'Lo, McKinnon," he says softly between bites.

"Black," says Marlene in turn, sitting awkwardly across from him, and it strikes her that even sex wasn't enough to put them on first-name terms. Sure, Black's sort of like her nickname for him, and all of the Marauders switch off between calling the girls by their first and last names, but that doesn't seem like _enough_ to her.

"I'm surprised you're not with Lupe," she says to take her mind off of it, pouring herself a goblet of pumpkin juice so she doesn't feel so out of place. "Lily and I have been in there all morning, and she didn't see you, either."

He chokes on his casserole at that. "Who told you about Moony?" Black splutters.

"Em," says Marlene nonchalantly. "Come _on_, Black, you didn't think people would hear about it? He fell off a broomstick because of a dare from you blokes, or whatever. It isn't like Lupe to be that stupid—it's a newsworthy story, as far as Smethley's lot is concerned."

"Right, yeah. I just reckoned he wouldn't want to see me after that," Black improvises, still coughing. She hasn't forgotten that something's up, but she promised Lupe she'd keep quiet, so she will, even with his well-informed mates. "Speaking of the Hufflepuffs, Lockhart has been yelling about your infatuation with him all morning. Something about a run-in on the way to breakfast…?"

Snorting, she explains, "I skipped breakfast; he just decided to escort me to the Great Hall before I could get in a word edgewise. Thinks I'll be his date to the Quidditch game next weekend."

"You're not interested?" he asks with—is that a hopeful edge to his voice?

"Lockhart's a thick arse; of course I'm not interested," says Marlene, not missing Black's visible relief. "Anyway, I reckon I'm going with the other Gryffindors like always, rallying behind you and J and all that, not that you'll need luck on your side to demolish Slytherin."

Black replies through a mouthful of beans, "Lily and Mary will go with you, I reckon. Wormtail's taking Flynn—can't believe they're still together, those two—Moony is going with Abbott, I think it's a pity date because of Longbottom's new girlfriend and shit—Em never goes to Quidditch games, but you know that already."

"Who's Frank's new girl?" says Marlene.

There's a wicked glint in Black's eyes. "Dana Madley. I know, I couldn't believe it when I heard, either," he says when Marlene spits out her mouthful of pumpkin juice in surprise.

"_Sourgify_," she says to clean up her mess, then laughs a bit incredulously at the news. "_The_ Dana Madley? That daft bitch who somehow landed herself in Ravenclaw? I didn't think Longbottom would go for someone that… er, busty, or that much of a gossipmonger, for that matter. Didn't she and J have a thing briefly last year?"

Black shakes his head. "Almost. She was really pushing for it, and you know what Prongs is like sometimes, so he led her on a bit more than he ought to have—but he never could have gone through with it. Whatever he says, he's always been holding out for Lily."

Not that Black knows anything about holding out for _her_, even when he knows he's already got her. Marlene drops her eyes; Black drops his voice. "You know I can't," he reminds her, sighing. "There's too much baggage, I'm too… I wish I could, but I can't, I'm sorry."

"You're not sorry," she says slowly, clenching her fist around her goblet.

"Marlene—"

Glaring, she stands. "I know you can't, I just can't fathom why not, or why _me_."

"Don't go, we can talk about this, I know I owe you that," Black protests, struggling to keep his voice down. "Last night—"

"I have to go; I promised Mare I'd meet her after lunch," fibs Marlene, and she feels so _tired_ again, not that she's felt anything else all day. "I'm going."

So she goes.

* * *

A/N: Beta'd January 23rd, 2010.


	18. November 8th: Lily Evans

**November 8****th****: Lily Evans**

_Monday_

She throws open the doors of the Great Hall to find the Slytherin table full of maroon hair and frowns. Turning to James, Lily can tell that he and his mates are the culprits—he's not laughing openly, but there's a smug upturn to the corners of his lips. "But _why_, James?" she says with a grin.

He starts to chuckle now that she's said it, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and holding tight. "It's Quidditch Week, Lily. You can't have thought we wouldn't kick it off with a bang," James reasons.

"Quidditch Week?" Lily repeats, raising her eyebrows.

It's a bland, colorless morning, complete with grey clouds above and a draft that rattles the windows. Remus is battered, Marlene is suspicious, Sirius is guilty—and James is guiding her away from worry; away from everyone, in fact, spinning her around and back out the doors before she's taken two steps inside. "You haven't _forgotten_, have you, after all the practices Padfoot and I have been to lately? Gryffindor versus Slytherin on Saturday—and you'd better be there. The week before the game is always brutal; where have you been for the last six years not to know that?"

_Skipping games and going to the library with Severus_, Lily thinks, but she suppresses it. "I know, I just didn't realize that a whole week of buildup is necessary—what are you doing?" she says, scrunching up her eyes as James prods the tip of her head with his wand.

"Relax, it's just a Glamour Charm," says James. "I'd think you could recognize one by now—haven't you been helping Mary with them every morning?"

She replies, "Not nonverbally. Is this really necessary?" Lily rakes her fingers through her hair and pulls a fistful forward: it's an auburn shade now, streaked with gold.

James snickers, "Didn't you see the warning flyer in the common room earlier? Anyone with red hair who passes through the doorway may come down with a terrible case of head lice—the Slytherins, now that we've dyed their hair maroon for the next week."

"What a shame," Lily says, shaking her head. "And here I thought that red hair was just a minor nuisance."

"Under different circumstances, I'd say it rather suits you, actually," teases James. He adds, sobering, "For what it's worth, if not for the lice, you wouldn't ever _need_ a Glamour Charm."

With a smile, she leans in and rests her head against his breastbone, accepting a proffered hug. It's nice, whatever she and James are doing together. (Lily can't for the life of her figure it out on her own.) She's not used to letting people in so soon, especially James after all she's put him through and all he's seen of her, and she hasn't forgotten that he may or may not be _interested_ in her, but… somehow, the possibility doesn't scare her.

Sometimes, when she lets herself consider it, it intrigues her.

Hearing a few gossipy fourth years pass them, Lily reluctantly pulls back, though she keeps one hand in James's. "And the highlights? Are _those_ necessary?" she asks playfully.

"Come on, you have to show _some_ sort of Gryffindor spirit," says James, running his fingers through a lock of her hair. "To breakfast?"

"Actually, I'd better go back upstairs, warn Mary about the lice," Lily says, shaking her head.

James grins, saying, "Red again today?" When she nods, he adds, "No one can pull off red as well as you can, you know."

She's smiling to herself all the way up to the Gryffindor Tower.

* * *

_Tuesday_

The wind dies down enough that a walk around the grounds is tolerable—and for that, Lily's thankful, since outdoors seems to be the only place where she can get Marlene alone. "I'm not going to tell you about it," Marlene is saying as the doors swing shut behind them. Lily didn't miss her intonation: not _you_.

She sighs, "Don't be that way—please? I know from Alice that you spent half of yesterday morning running around trying to find me; what else could you have wanted?"

Marlene shoots her a glare that has her blushing and looking down. "That was before I knew you were going to lie to me."

"I'm not _lying_ to you—" Lily starts to say.

"Merlin, Lily, you tried to convince me that Lupe got those injuries by _falling off a broomstick_—he may not be athletic, but he isn't _that_ pathetic." Her tone is clipped.

Lily accepts this, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head to the side as if to say, _touché_. "I don't want to sell you some story—if I did, I'd keep trying to shove that down your throat long after you figured it out," she argues. "I'm protecting his privacy. You'd understand if you knew—"

"But I don't know, _do_ I, so why should I believe that?" Marlene demands.

And it's killing her because she _so_ wants to give up all this pretending and come clean—_Remus is a werewolf_—but it's a secret that, Merlin knows, could ruin his future if the wrong person finds out, and it's not Lily's place to decide who can be trusted. "Because you believe _me_," Lily says instead because it's the best she can come up with; "because you left your family and took me in to get me through last summer, and you ought to know, after everything, that I'm not going to hide things from you like—like—"

"Like a bitchy little nine-year-old brat," Marlene finishes for her when Lily can't come up with the right words.

She hides her grin in the crook of her elbow, faking a cough. "Yes, exactly. Look, Marlene—that's Remus's business, and I'm not going to meddle in his life by telling you what he's going through. But don't punish me by keeping quiet about Sirius. I may not have said anything all those times he came over last August, and all right, maybe it's easier just to let Alice dock points and handle it most of the time, but you said it yourself, this is different—"

Marlene interrupts, "Oh, so you'd rather not 'handle me' when there's someone else to do it for you, and you don't trust me enough to tell me _your_ secrets, but you still get all offended when I don't confide in you?"

This isn't her secret; this isn't _fair_. She doesn't even understand what's going on with Remus: all Lily remembers is meeting James and Peter in the common room that night to heal their wounds, only James said Remus wouldn't let them come, they don't know why, they don't believe his excuses, and it's been _so long_ since he's done it alone, he could bloody well get himself killed in his state, so could she think of some dumb excuse about why he's in the Hospital Wing in case it's an extended stay? Sirius wouldn't come (probably because of Marlene, she knows now), so it was just the three of them traipsing down to his bedside the next morning, and Merlin, all the Healing in the world can't ever erase the memory of seeing him so battered and _defeated_—and she can't explain any of that to Marlene, and it wouldn't matter even if she could because it isn't something that can be cured.

Lily blocks out the memory of it—what more can she do? "Please talk to me," she says softly, her lip quivering. "It's too much to carry alone."

"Maybe it would be for you," says Marlene, her voice wavering by the smallest fraction, "but I'm stronger than that."

She turns on her heel and marches back to the castle. Watching Marlene's retreating back, Lily heaves a sigh and hopes she can call this progress.

* * *

_Wednesday_

Only James actually calls it Quidditch Week, but he was right about the anticipation, it seems. By Wednesday morning, Lily has heard reports of six scuffles between Gryffindors and Slytherins in the younger years, one of which involved injuries so bad that Madam Pomfrey insisted on keeping the student overnight for observation. "I'm just glad that nothing too serious has happened yet," Alice says when Lily brings it up in the dormitory. "Can you imagine what could have happened if older students had been involved?"

"Who's to say they won't be? There's still another three days before the match," says Lily fervently, crossing the room to Mary's bed and murmuring a quick "wake up, Mare, you've got Herbology." Aquarius follows her, leaping onto the bed and licking a dazed Mary's face.

"Don't remind me," Marlene snarls, scraping her hairbrush against her scalp and yanking it through her tangles. (She's been more than a little upset since Sunday.) "Another hour and a half of working with Lockhart—Merlin, why did _he_ have to replace Cattermole?"

Batting Aquarius away as she wakes up, Mary replies, "Let it go, Lene. You can't actually _expect_ me to work in the same group as Reg after what happened in Hogsmeade, can you? Greta's not going to separate from Ver, and Davy is with Reg now, so unless, like, you want to go join Benjy and James and Sirius—"

"Merlin, no," snaps Marlene. "Can't we split up or something, though? Alice and I can partner Gudgeon and Cattermole, or—"

"No," says Mary shortly, and they can all tell it's the end of that discussion. "Thanks, Lily, but I think I'm going to go natural today. I haven't done black in a while."

Lily nods and slides off Mary's bed. "You're running a bit late for class—do you want me and Em to bring back some breakfast while you're getting ready?"

"That would be nice—thanks, Lily," says Alice with a smile.

Lily bids them a cheery goodbye and departs, Emmeline in tow. "I hope you don't mind me volunteering you like that," says Lily to break the ice. "I just thought—I mean, I didn't want to leave you out or anything—"

Emmeline folds her hands and looks down. "It's not surprising. You're one of them now."

"One of—I'm sorry, what? I'm not—" She trips over words at first, uncomprehending, unsure. "It's just me. It's Lily."

"It's not," Emmeline says with a tone of finality and a funny little smile at her lips.

To no avail, she mulls this over on the walk downstairs, giving it up when they reach the Great Hall. Lily really ought to talk to her: it's been a while since the days when they were Gryffindor outsiders together, and though Lily's grateful to have the others as mates now, she rather misses Emmeline's quiet companionship that she traded for the girls. "Clearly, we need to catch up," she says hesitantly, gauging Emmeline's reaction out the corner of her eye as they approach the Gryffindor table. She's always on her guard, Emmeline, but she looks at least a _little_ surprised by the proposition. "Do you want to have breakfast together after we drop some food off upstairs?"

Emmeline says slowly, "Margaret and I…"

"It's one meal. You can make it up to Maggie," Lily coaxes her, tossing a few apples and rolls into her bag before turning back around.

Though she spares a glance for the Ravenclaw table, Emmeline nods, giving in. "All right. Breakfast," she agrees timidly as Lily pushes open the doors.

Lily repeats, "Breakfast." They start to mount the staircase again, both smiling, albeit a bit timidly, and she finally feels like something is going _right_ for her, like she can forget for a moment or two that everyone's in big trouble: she, Remus, Marlene…

It doesn't last long. "Do you hear something?" Lily asks. The halls aren't echoing with just their footsteps anymore; there's some sort of scuffle in the background, some shouted incantations.

"Hear what?" Emmeline is saying, but Lily's already rounding the corner, her bag clunking painfully against her thigh, and then she knows that there's no need to explain _this_. It's Sirius versus the Slytherin Beaters, Amycus and Alecto Carrow, twins from their year. He's holding his own, but all three of them look pretty battered, and she's _horrified_.

"Sirius, _don't_!" Lily yells, worming her way out from under the strap of her bag and whipping out her wand. "_Protego! PROTEGO! EXPELLIARMUS!_"

As Sirius and the Carrows fly apart, one of the wands flies into her free hand—Amycus's, she notes with relief. She hastily disarms Alecto and Sirius, then stashes all three wands in her robe pocket and cautiously drops the shield. "Can you find Alice or someone to handle this, Em?" she says, glancing over her shoulder—but Emmeline's already gone, replaced in the unexpected form of Dorcas Meadowes, the Head Girl.

Dear Merlin.

"Vance ran into me in the corridor, said there was a duel going on," Meadowes says breathlessly—has she been running to get here? "A pre-match dispute, I assume?"

"It looks like it," says Lily, looking to Sirius. He nods, cold fury fuelling a spark in his eyes. "But I don't think anyone's seriously injured."

Meadowes sighs, but her fist clenches around her wand—she means business. "All right. Thirty points from Gryffindor, sixty from Slytherin, and don't let me catch any of you fighting again in the next week, or I'll see to it that you don't play on Saturday. Can you make it to the Hospital Wing on your own, or do I need to drag your arses down there myself to ensure that Madam Pomfrey takes a look?"

They go of their own accord, though not together. _What were you thinking?_ Lily mouths furiously at Sirius; he brushes past her with a silent _I'll tell you later_, and she intends to hold him to it.

Once the Carrows are gone, Meadowes compliments her, "You handed that well, Evans." Lily's surprised, but she hides it, offering Meadowes a half-smile. "From what Vance was saying, it was pretty bad. Curses flying everywhere—"

"I cast a pretty strong Shield Charm," says Lily modestly, shrugging. "But thanks."

"Either way, five points back to Gryffindor for wand-work and quick thinking—actually, no, let's make it ten. Gryffindor's going to take quite a hit when they finally catch Potter's gang for the lice," says Meadowes. She grins as she departs, a few maroon stripes still in her hair gleaming under the lamplight. It only reinforces Lily's notion that she's not half bad for a Slytherin: Fabian must not be as crazy as everyone thinks for going out with the girl.

It's not until she's back in the dormitory, passing over food and gossiping about the fight, that it occurs to her that Emmeline blew her off for breakfast.

* * *

_Thursday_

Sirius won't talk, so she goes to James instead, catching him alone in the common room the following evening. "He wouldn't even mention it to me—I didn't find out about it myself until Defense Against the Dark Arts today. Andy held him back after class to talk to him about it."

It's late—late enough that they're the only ones still up. The last fifth and seventh years finally went up to their dormitories about ten minutes ago, leaving them alone: the other sixth year girls are all in bed by now, Sirius and Peter at Remus's bedside in the hospital wing. "But _why_?" Lily persists. "I know he's a bit… _aggressive_, but he's not the type to attack people for no reason, is he?"

James says, "It's probably just the timing. Inter-house tensions are high to begin with this week, and then there's Regulus… Sirius reckons he joined up with Voldemort last summer, that's why he left home." He trails off for a minute, looking morosely into the distance, then continues, "And before the full moon, Remus was avoiding us, skipped a class or two—and he kept talking about Belby like he's a threat."

"Damocles Belby?" says Lily, surprised. "What does _he_ have to do with anything?"

"Dunno. None of us know," James sighs. "I reckon he's just on edge about the whole of Slytherin house these days, and the Carrows were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Lily muses, "Huh. _Belby_."

They sit quietly for a minute, the room silent apart from the _pat-pat-pat_ of rain against the castle. She says, finally, "I don't think I mind you lot being there with Remus when he transforms… I did at first, but from the looks of it, it's much worse on him when you're not there, and you seem to have a handle on staying alive when you're there. You're all still completely daft for putting yourselves in danger like that," she says quickly when he starts to chuckle, "but on the flip side—it's sweet of you to do it for him."

"Insults to my masculinity aside, glad to have your approval," jokes James, smiling warmly. She feigns irritation, but her halfhearted complaints are lost against his chest as he scoots in closer on the couch and wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.

"I guess this means you were right about Quidditch Week," Lily mumbles sheepishly, her words muffled.

James laughs again, shaking his head. "Guess so," he echoes. "How could you _not_ have noticed until now, though, honestly? Macdonald's the clueless one, not you."

"Be nice. Mary's not as thick as people give her credit for," chides Lily gently, tilting up her chin to meet his eyes. "But really… I suppose because of Severus." James stiffens but nods for her to go on. "He'd always point out all the stupid things people did whenever a match was coming up, of course, but I just—well, neither of us ever got into the sport, so we never really stopped to notice that all the drama was in the week leading up to the game, or that it was at its worst for Gryffindor versus Slytherin. We wouldn't even go to the games; we used to spend the morning of a match working on Potions essays together in the library."

"You mean you've never seen me in a Hogwarts match before?" says James incredulously. She shakes her head, sheepish. "But that's just—it's—that's a disgrace to the noble Gryffindor name!" he declares grandly, gaping at her.

"Come on, it's not that bad—I saw you at the Prewetts' place last summer, remember? And I'm going this year, too, with the girls," Lily says in her defense, grinning.

He maintains, "But to have skipped _every_ match for _five years_…"

"It's not a crime to dislike Quidditch, James." He doesn't look like he can handle this revelation, so she elaborates, "It's not that I don't like to fly, but making a sport of it—to me, that's like taking something beautiful and, I don't know, taking all the _wonder_ out of it. All that competition—it's like you're focusing so much on the heat of the moment that you forget why wizards invented broomsticks in the first place."

"People didn't dream up broomsticks because people like to be up high, they just wanted to move fast," says James lightly, but she knows from the look on her face that he's taking her seriously. "You can't really feel the wind on your face if all you're doing up there is floating in the clouds."

Sighing, she asks, "How is it that you're able to make things like that look decent?"

"Things like what?" repeats James blankly.

"You know. Sports, pranks, the whole nine yards," Lily lists, ticking them off on her fingers. "Not that you make me want to go hex a Slytherin or anything, but—I never used to be able to understand you, you know that."

"Oh, so now you're claiming to have me all figured out?" James teases.

She doesn't smile, necessarily, but the corners of her lips turn up. "You're not the kind of person I'll ever have all figured out, I don't think, but you make me want to at least _try_."

"Good save. Nicely done," he mocks, but he gives himself away by squeezing her shoulders.

"They're onto you lot about the head lice, you know," Lily informs him after a pause. "Dorcas Meadowes told me so after she broke up the fight yesterday. _She_ knows it was the Marauders, at any rate, even if Dumbledore doesn't have enough proof to punish you yet."

"Oh, but I'm one step ahead of you, Lily; McGonagall docked twenty points for it after lunch. Since when do you talk to Meadowes, anyway?" he adds offhand, straightening up.

She shrugs and says, "I don't, really. We just got to talking a bit yesterday after Sirius and the twins left… she seems nice."

James agrees, "She's all right, Meadowes. She's a Slytherin for a reason, but she's not filth like a lot of them—she's more towards the 'resourceful' and 'ambitious' end of the spectrum, if you ask me. She'll have a hard time serving a successful term as Head Girl, though; from what I hear from Moony, she's an easy target for the prefects."

"That's what Alice says, but I think I understand where Dumbledore was coming from, giving it to her," says Lily thoughtfully. "Haven't you noticed that none of the fights this week have involved first years? It sends a good message, pairing her up with Kingsley. It may be too late for some of us, but…" She swallows painfully, thinking of Severus.

James says, "It's like that saying about old men starting wars and young men fighting them. The only reason the Slytherins are endorsing all the blood purity shit is because of how they've been raised and what they've been told by the old blood families. If they can break the cycle early, there won't be anything to fight about; Voldemort will be outnumbered."

Lily curls up against him, taking in his words. "You'd make a good leader, you know that?"

His answering smile is melancholic. "As would you."

* * *

_Friday_

Potions class is painfully awkward. It's the only class the Gryffindor and Slytherin sixth years have together; add that to Lily avoiding Severus, Remus and Belby exchanging significant looks, and Sirius sending Alecto Carrow death glares, and it's almost more than any of them can take. Mundungus Fletcher is the only remaining Slytherin who isn't holding a grudge against anyone in the room, but his good nature only aggravates the other students.

And worse, Slughorn is eager to play on the competitive mood. "First pair to successfully brew the potion earns ten points to their house and a free pass to the Slug Club's next gathering!" he announces, clapping his hands once with excitement. "So get to it! Sirius, Remus, I'm going to have to ask you to separate—back with your usual partners, please."

"Get me out of here," Sirius mutters to them out the corner of his mouth as he passes, begrudgingly taking his seat next to Marlene.

"For once, I'm going to have to agree with Sirius," Lily sighs, flipping through her textbook to the appropriate recipe. James grabs her free hand under the table and doesn't let go.

Class is only five minutes underway before Marlene's frustration with Sirius seems to outweigh her recent spat with Lily. She makes a point of following Lily to the ingredient cupboard, then says under her breath, "Tell me again how I landed _him_ as my partner."

"If I recall correctly, you blew up our potion on the first day, so Slughorn split us up and put you with Sirius," says Lily, her grin widening at the resentful look Marlene gives her. "Good luck!" she adds cheekily, though she's just as anxious as Marlene seems to be.

"Same to you," replies Marlene, sensing this, as she gathers her ingredients in her arms and walks back to her seat.

They're all thoroughly disgruntled by the end of the period; so much so, in fact, that Sirius and Marlene are speaking normally again (Lily isn't sure how long _that_ will last). At least, semi-normally. "And now I have to put up with Black for _another_ hour and a half before dinner," Marlene accuses, jabbing her thumb into his chest, "since all the other Marauders will be in class, Remus is out of the Hospital Wing, and he has no friends outside of Gryffindor."

"You make it sound like my good health is a bad thing," says Remus, feigning hurt. He was finally released from Madam Pomfrey's care this morning during breakfast, and apart from a few blue-green bruises and a splint on his left arm, he's well on the way to a full recovery.

"If my presence is so offensive to you, I'll just find Gid or Benjy or someone," says Sirius, rolling his eyes. "I'm not _antisocial_, McKinnon."

"No, just socially incompetent," Marlene says scathingly, crossing her arms. "You disgust me, you know that?"

James shakes his head at their antics and takes hold of Lily's wrist, tugging her out of the group. "If you're finished with the theatrics, Lily and I will be going now; we have a report due for History of Magic in four hours."

"But I finished that essay two weeks ago," she protests feebly, though she lets James pull her along. "You'd better have written yours already, or—"

"It's _written_," says James, shushing her, "but who else am I supposed to enlist to proofread it, Amelia Bones? We can't have _that_."

As it turns out, James's essay needs a lot more than a little proofreading, but Lily lacks the patience to give it more than a quick read-through. "You have to do _your own_ work, James, I'm not just going to rewrite the whole thing for you," she says to answer his protests.

"You'll regret this when I don't talk to you in class today," he says, half threatening, half amused.

"Oh, Merlin, I'm just _dreading_ the thought of being able to take notes in peace for once," Lily replies, grinning back at him.

"How else do you think you'll get through the period?" he retorts, but his face falls as he turns back to the essay, daunted.

But Lily knows James better than that by now, knows him well enough to be sure that he'll keep a hand on her knee and a steady stream of whispers in her ear. He'll finish the essay just in time—probably score an "O" on it, too—because he may be a procrastinator and lack much respect for the rules, but he's the type of bloke who, like it or not, always pulls through in the end.

"Good luck," she tells him, even though he doesn't really need it, and she really means, _Make me proud tomorrow_.

He says with a sheepish smile, "Thanks"—_I will_.


	19. November 13th: Peter Pettigrew

**November 13****th****: Peter Pettigrew**

Peter hadn't been a student at Hogwarts for a day before Raymond Ketteridge tried to beat him up Muggle-style: it only took one comment before the Sorting to Remus that Slytherin sounded awful. Sirius fought him off easily before any real damage was done to Peter's bone structure, but Peter never forgot the incident, and in _his_ mind, Ketteridge hasn't matured one bit since the days when he was a pudgy-faced eleven-year-old kid who thought that a punch was an all-purpose quick fix.

So Peter's not surprised for long when he's woken Saturday morning by the sound of James's fist punching through the headboard of his four-poster. After all, following Meghan McCormack around the castle for hours after dinner and going on to hex her into oblivion in the middle of the night is _exactly_ the sort of thing that an oaf like Ketteridge would do.

"Calm down, Prongs, it's not that bad," Remus says as Peter lets the news sink in and wakes up properly. "Well, it is for Meghan, of course, but you can still get through the game without her—you have reserve players, right?"

"Just a Chaser and a Beater," says James, flexing his fist and wincing. He's punched clean through the wood, leaving a hole in the headboard and splintered cuts in his hand. "_Dammit_."

Remus rationalizes, "Then you can play Seeker and have the Chaser take over for you."

"I know, that's what I'm going to suggest to Gid, but that doesn't _fix_ it!" James says heatedly. "Robins hasn't been practicing with us, he probably won't know half the plays Gid uses—and anyway, you know I'm not half the Seeker Meg is, no one at this _school_ is half the Seeker Meg is! It's one thing to do tricks on occasion with a Snitch I stole from practice, but I've been practicing Chaser, I haven't been training as _Seeker_. Merlin, you know how bad my vision is, why do you think I didn't make Seeker on the team in the first place? What if I can't even _see_ the Snitch when I'm out there?"

Blearily, Peter pulls himself into a sitting position, still blinking against the harsh light of day. He lets Remus handle James—Merlin knows that Remus will do a better job of calming him down—and fumbles for his wand on his nightstand, casting a quick _Reparo_ in the direction of James's bed once he's found it. "Where's Padfoot?" he asks as Remus pauses for breath, realizing that Sirius is nowhere to be found.

"He burst in here, let me know what happened to Meg, and then took off," says James bitterly. "Gid's probably having a team meeting _right now_ that I'm missing."

"So go. Get a plan, figure it out," Remus advises simply.

James shakes his head. "I _can't_, there _is_ no plan, I—"

Fully awake now, Peter crosses the room and plops down next to James on his bed, giving his best supportive smile. "You had the Map last, right? Find Lily on it, have her heal your hand, and then talk to Gideon. You're _James Potter_; you can do this."

"I…" James gulps nervously and rakes a hand through his hair. "Lily. All right. The Map is in my trunk, I think…"

Lily's still in her dormitory, as it turns out, so Remus patches him up as best as he can (which isn't too well, but at least the splinters are out) and sends him to the Great Hall to strategize with Gideon. "He'll be fine," Peter says as the door slams shut behind James.

"He always is," Remus agrees; then, smiling, "Ketteridge, huh? I wouldn't have expected it from him; it's been a while since he's terrorized anyone."

"Yeah, well, _I'm_ not surprised," says Peter. Once an oaf, always an oaf: he may not look it, but Peter's not the type to forgive easily.

It's quiet for a moment as Peter changes into his robes and Remus searches for a clean Gryffindor tie. Then, softly, Peter says, "It's not just about our safety, is it?"

And Remus bows his head and closes his eyes, and Peter _knows_ he doesn't want to talk about what he did last full moon, but he answers anyway because they both know Peter won't pry: "No, Wormtail, it's not."

When Remus isn't looking, Peter snatches up the Map James left behind and stuffs it in his pocket.

They change quickly and wait for Lily to emerge from the girls' dormitory, filling her in on Meghan's accident and James's hand on the walk downstairs. True to their expectations, James is in his element when they meet him in the Great Hall. The Gryffindor team is gathered at the end of the table that the seventh years usually frequent, along with a nervous-looking fifth year that Peter assumes is the reserve Chaser. "I heard about what happened. That was low, what Ketteridge did to Meghan," says Lily, frowning and whipping out her wand. "_Episkey_."

There's a spark of determination in James's eyes when he answers, "If anything, Slytherin's going to pay for what they did to her last night. Robins is filling in as Chaser—I'm taking Seeker."

It's almost like James is a different person outside of their dorm. There's a private James and a public James—insecure, then confident; shaken, then composed. Peter takes one look at Lily's expression and can't help but wonder whether James has ever lost his cool around _her_.

They part soon after that, leaving the team to their last minute planning. Remus and Lily rejoin the other sixth years, while Peter heads for the Ravenclaw table and takes a seat next to Siobhan Flynn, a fifth year (and a Ravenclaw Beater herself). They've been on a few dates in the last couple of months, and while nothing is official yet, it felt only natural to take her to the first Quidditch game of the year. "Rooting for the Lions, I hope?" he asks, looping an arm around her waist.

Siobhan grins, setting down her spoon. "Well, since it looks like Gryffindor and Hufflepuff will be the teams to beat this year, it _is_ in Ravenclaw's best interests that Slytherin win … _hey_!" She giggles at Peter's responding scowl. "Gryffindor has their work cut out for them today, though… did you hear about Meghan McCormack?"

"Prongs and Padfoot are my roommates; how could I _not_ have heard about Meghan McCormack?" He leans in and grabs a breakfast roll off the table—he's too excited about the match to be hungry, but he still ought to eat _something_ to tide him over until lunch. "Padfoot said they think Ketteridge did it—you know Raymond Ketteridge from Slytherin?"

"Ketteridge? You'd think it would have been one of the team members, not _him_. They're not even in the same year; what's he got against McCormack?" wonders Siobhan before taking another bite of cereal.

"Probably did it on someone else's bidding. Ketteridge isn't nearly clever enough to dream up something like that himself," says Peter darkly.

Siobhan giggles again, then pales and shakes her head. "How're they going to win without McCormack, though? That's what I want to know—I know how you feel about Regulus Black, but he's a damn good Seeker."

"Prongs is playing Seeker. One of the reserves is filling in as Chaser," says Peter, nibbling on the roll.

"Ooh, _that'll_ be interesting to watch," says Siobhan, swallowing. "Potter versus Black, and not the one he's mates with…"

"One more hour until it all plays out," Peter says with a hint of apprehension. "Anyway, I'm going to go find Moony, but I'll meet you in the stands in half an hour, all right?"

She leans in and pecks him quickly on the lips. "Half an hour," she repeats, smiling.

He lied. He knows exactly where Remus is—at the Gryffindor table, talking to Lily and Alice. No, it's something he has to do, something he should have done a month and a half ago the minute he put the pieces together. The timing is finally right: if all goes well, he'll only be a few minutes late to the game. Almost everyone's attention will be focused on the Quidditch pitch—too focused to notice that he was ever missing at all.

Everyone's attention—but Emmeline's.

* * *

The stands are packed, but he finds Siobhan all right—she's near the sixth years' usual spot in the Gryffindor section. "Have I missed anything?" Peter asks her, smiling and leaning in for a hug.

"They're about to start," says Alice as Siobhan kisses his cheek. She and Remus seem to have taken her under their wing while Peter was missing, and he feels a brief pang of guilt. All that discomfort and suspicion, maybe for nothing…

"Sorry I'm late; I was talking to Em about that Divination paper. Her marks are fantastic in there," he says hastily by way of explanation. Remus nods his understanding—he's enrolled, too, and so accepts the alibi.

Good-naturedly, Siobhan shrugs. "No worries. Alice here's just been filling me in on everything with her and Longbottom. I know Dana Madley, she's on the Ravenclaw team with me—I'm on Alice's side for this one."

Peter chuckles, then starts to applaud as he hears Mike McKinnon, one of Marlene's brothers and the usual Quidditch commentator, announcing the start of the game. "And here come the Gryffindors, captained by Chaser Gideon Prewett! There've been a few changes to the lineup this match: this is the first game played by new Beater Anna Moon and reserve Chaser Ryan Robins, and James Potter's first time Seeking, in light of recent pigheadedness I'm sure you've all heard of by now—"

"MCKINNON!" McGonagall was clearly not pleased with Mike's biased commentary.

"Just stating the truth, Professor, it's better for Ravenclaw if Slytherin wins anyway—and speaking of which, here they are! This year's Captain is again Dorcas Meadowes, whom I hear isn't as wretched of a Head Girl as everyone thought—sorry, Professor, I'm just setting the scene—we'll see how her Keeping shapes up against the Gryffindor Captain and reserve! There's just one new member of the team this year, Regulus Black, playing Seeker—will Sirius Black pummel him with Bludgers before he has a chance to catch the Snitch? I know, Professor, but it's just _background_, he was at my house half the summer, trust me on this."

Peter laughs freely, knowing just how true that is. "Captains, shake hands!" Madam Hooch interrupts, and Gideon squeezes Meadowes's hand in a death grip as Hooch releases the Snitch and the Bludgers, then throws up the Quaffle and blows her whistle.

"Come on, Prongs, do Meghan proud," Peter murmurs as the players speed into the air. On his way into the sky, James sideswipes Regulus with a sense of cocky competition.

It's going to be an interesting game indeed.

* * *

Peter doesn't get overlooked. Okay, so he's quieter than the other Marauders—so what? It's all right by him that they have bolder personalities than he does. Just because he doesn't crack jokes and girls don't fawn over him doesn't make him _less_. He's a different sort of mate than James and Sirius—softer around the edges, like Remus, but wiser than he is clever—and they value him all the same for it. Everything needs balance, even the Gryffindors, and Peter is perfectly happy to be the dependable one.

But Emmeline is a different kind of quiet, the _wrong_ kind of quiet. She's become a cold, unfriendly sort of girl, frown lines carved into her long forehead—it's been two years, and she's still shutting them out. He feels for her, but she's gone too far.

There's a difference between distance and punishment.

* * *

"And it's Gryffindor in possession, caught by fifth year Edgar Bones! It's Bones's third year on the team and first year dating Meghan McCormack, who's out of commission as Seeker after last night's attack, I'll bet that's got him riled—right, Professor—Bones in possession, flanked by Prewett and Robins and heading toward the Slytherin goal-posts, but they're not going to get there as fast as they'd like—nice Bludger from Alecto Carrow, but Prewett catches the Quaffle—Bones is steady again and supporting him—Prewett is in the scoring area—he shoots—he—no! A quick save by Meadowes! Bummer for Prewett, but Meadowes is good, she certainly is—

"And Nott from Slytherin has caught the Quaffle, but Bones and Robins are blocking him easily, they're in standstill—Black from Gryffindor is in a hell of a mood on the field today, excuse my French, that's got to be the fifth or sixth Bludger he's hit that's almost knocked a Slytherin off their broom, is anyone keeping count of these? If Gryffindor could have ten points for every collision—one of Moon's Bludgers makes Nott drop the Quaffle—and— what the hell? _Potter_ in possession? But he's Seeking today! There's no foul in the book for it—_clever_ tactic, especially with his skill, but you've got to realize, Potter, what if Black gets the Snitch because you weren't—and he scores, first goal of the game, ten-zero to Gryffindor! Nott in possession again…"

* * *

Oh, there she is—studying in the far corner of the library, just like he predicted. "Em, there you are," he murmurs as he quickly crosses the space between them. (He takes care to keep his voice down: he doesn't need Madam Pince breathing down their necks over the conversation he intends to start.)

"Isn't the match starting soon?" Emmeline points out. Pushing him away—well, that was only to be expected.

_I'm sorry for this._

He says, shrugging, "You're not down there, either." She doesn't have a retort for this, so he goes on, dropping his voice, "Why haven't you told anyone that you're an orphan?"

* * *

"Another goal from Robins puts the score at thirty-ten for Gryffindor! Prewett in possession… it's a surprisingly clean game from Slytherin today, Meadowes really has cleaned up her team well. She and Fabian Prewett are both fantastic Keepers—Prewett's blocked, what, four of five attempts?—but Potter's involvement and her unfamiliarity with Robins's style have Meadowes missing more goals than usual today, and—Prewett's called a time-out! Did he know beforehand about the stunts Potter's been pulling?

"…That's a penalty to Slytherin for blatching—flying with the intent to collide. Don't be so nasty, Black, you don't want to corrupt Moon so early, it's only her first game, you know—you may loathe your brother, but a Bludger will set him off course just as well, that's no excuse for illegal behavior! _Back off_, Professor—Yaxley scores, thirty-twenty for Gryffindor—"

* * *

Emmeline goes deathly still, her quill sliding out of her fingers and dropping softly onto the desk. "Excuse me?" she asks eventually, her voice strangled and high-pitched.

"Come on, there was no way you could have hidden it for long. I mean—" He's trying to be gentle about it, but there's still a blush darkening on Emmeline's otherwise pale cheeks "—it's always your sister who takes you to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters in the fall and who writes you during the year, and you never mention seeing your mum or dad, not that you've mentioned much of anything to any of us since fourth year when it happened—"

"_Shut it_," says Emmeline reflexively. Peter trails off, downcast but the tiniest bit satisfied with himself—he's always been good at figuring people out. Without him, who knows how long Remus would have lied about his lycanthropy undetected?

After a few deep breaths and some color lost from her cheeks, Emmeline adds, "Who else knows?"

There's another implication in her question: _whom else did you tell_? "Just me," says Peter, and she looks a bit relieved at the news. "But I know Alice is onto something, and you ought to tell her if she asks. It's only a matter of time before it all comes out. We're your _mates_, Em, we're the ones who will be there for you when you need someone to talk to; that you turn to, to get through the hard stuff—"

"You think I _need_ your lot in my life?" says Emmeline harshly, "that it isn't maddening to me to hear all your little rumors and your gossip when _I_ know how far you are from the bigger picture? Please. It's insulting to be around you."

* * *

"Potter in possession again, I don't know whether he's a genius or a fool—he's swerving to avoid one of the Carrows's Bludgers, Moon hits the other one out of his way—he's approaching the goalposts—he drops the Quaffle, Potter drops the Quaffle, he's catapulting toward Meadowes—has he seen the Snitch by the hoops? He's lucky he noticed it, honestly, though I'm sure Black's Bludgers could have compensated if Black were to see it and Potter weren't—Black is tailing him, but he hasn't quite caught up, he's—they're—for Meghan, Potter!—no, _dammit_, Black, now he's lost sight of it! And—yes, Hooch has called it, penalty to Gryffindor for blagging, or pulling another player's broom tail!"

* * *

"It's not, though. I know you think you're so much more… _perceptive_, I guess, than the rest of us, and you probably are, but that doesn't mean that everyone else is shallow," Peter defends weakly. He's sadder than anything about what's happened to Em, to their friendship, and he's sure it's starting to show. "Padfoot and Marlene had to run away from home last summer, it got so bad with them and their families, and Lily lost _her_ parents, went through the _exact same thing_ as you—but she didn't cut us out. She barely even knew any of us before that blowout she had with Snape, and she only really talked to Prongs and Marlene when _her_ parents died, but even she realized she could turn to us—and you didn't?"

"Lily's not smart, she's _dependent_. I thought she had the right idea about things for the last five years, but no, the minute her mate does something against her, she goes running into someone else's arms," Emmeline snaps.

Peter sighs, "It's not like that—you did the same as Lily did, jumping straight from Padfoot to Maggie McKinnon. Only difference is that now _you're_ the one acting like you're so much better than the other Gryffindors, and that _hurts_, Em, it really does."

She doesn't have anything to say to that at first, finally muttering, "You ought to know why I quit on Sirius, if you claim to know so much about me."

He replies, "None of it was Padfoot's fault, and you know it. Don't punish him for what happened to you. You're no better than him or the rest of us just because you've been through things, Em, and you know, the thing is, all of us care about you and would want nothing more than to be there for you if we knew that anything was wrong, but you're too caught up in your… your _disillusionment_ to bother appreciating it, or even _seeing_ it."

Since Madam Pince is starting to look aggravated by their whispers, he turns to go, adding over his shoulder, "I hope you know what you're doing, Em, I really do."

* * *

"And Meadowes blocks a goal from Bones—she's back on her game, now that Potter is looking for the Snitch like he ought to, but he's already helped put Gryffindor in a considerable lead of seventy to thirty. Slytherin in possession, Amycus Carrow on the verge of bludgeoning the Gryffindor team to death, Sirius Black looks tame in comparison right now—didn't they get in a row last week? Of course, Professor, I _am_ focusing on the game—Prewett lets in Nott's goal—Gryffindor in possession again—it's seventy-forty in Gryffindor's favor, Slytherin is catching up—"

* * *

Peter doesn't get overlooked in part because he's not interested in falling through the cracks. Emmeline, on the other hand, can't say the same. And it looks like it's up to Peter to show her that it doesn't have to be this way, ugly truth and all.

He hopes it's not too late to forgive and forget.

* * *

"Potter, that better be the Snitch you're chasing, Gryffindor's only twenty points ahead now—Slytherin's been gaining on you for an hour and a half, there's not much more of this that three of us houses can take—shut it, Professor, Black is gaining on him, Black is _ahead_ of him—BLACK CATCH—no? NO! BLACK KNOCKS BLACK OUT OF THE WAY WITH A BLUDGER TO THE HEAD, CLEARING THE WAY FOR—POTTER CATCHES THE SNITCH! GRYFFINDOR WINS, TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY TO SIXTY!"

* * *

McGonagall would never have allowed the after-party to go on until three o'clock in the morning—but then, Gideon Prewett was in too good a mood to complain, none of the other prefects minded as long as Gideon was all right with it, and nobody who wasn't a prefect was dumb enough to report it to McGonagall. Besides, Edgar Bones and Fabian Prewett didn't manage to sneak Meghan McCormack out of the Hospital Wing until half past two, and it wouldn't be fair to Meghan if the festivities ended without her, would it, after all she'd been through in the last twenty-four hours?

Peter's dancing with James when Meghan comes up to congratulate him on his performance on the field. Edgar's pedaling her over in a contraption called a wheelchair, something Mary says that Muggles use all the time in hospitals when they're not strong enough to walk. Peter thinks it's bizarre-looking and unnecessary, but after all, Meghan _is_ on bed-rest for a week; it wouldn't do to aggravate Madam Pomfrey any further than she will be when she finds out that one of her patients is missing.

Pomfrey's potions have her a little dizzy, but she's lucid enough to communicate, at least. "Potter!" she calls, her speech a bit slurred from Pomfrey's regimen, but her eyes are bright and excited. "Eddie says you were a hero today."

"Did he?" laughs James, letting go of Peter for a moment to clap Meghan on the shoulder, grinning at her and Edgar. "Because Lily and Gid keep telling me I was just being a flashy show-off and came close to losing the game for us instead of winning it."

"Gid's an arse, and Evans doesn't understand Quidditch," says Meghan. "You lot call yourselves Marauders, right? Can't say that unless you've got a few stunts up your sleeve."

James smiles, rumpling up his hair. "Honored to have done it, but no one could ever replace you, Meg."

Peter takes this as his cue to leave, struggling to find a familiar face in the crowd. Reaching the hearth, he finally catches sight of another sixth year—Mary's curled up on the sofa, guzzling down a butterbeer but otherwise on the verge of falling asleep. "Hey, Mare," he greets, plopping down next to her and prying the drink out of her hands. "You look like you're about ready to turn in," Peter adds, smiling faintly.

"Reckon so, yeah," Mary yawns. "What time is it?"

"A little after three—no, that's enough butterbeer, any more and you'll be up all night," says Peter, kind but firm, and he sets it on the coffee table in front of them.

She curls up against him, half in his lap, slipping her arms around his waist. "I miss Reg," she says abruptly, to which Peter doesn't know _what_ to tell her, but she quickly adds, "Why aren't you with James or Rem or Sirius?"

"Prongs is talking to Meghan, and Moony and Padfoot are… somewhere," he says vaguely, not entirely sure himself.

"Oh," accepts Mary. "So why are you with me instead of them?"

"I like being with you," says Peter honestly. Mary smiles blearily, as if hearing this is a pleasant surprise, and Peter feels a rush of empathy for his mate, holding her close and resting his cheek against the top of her head for a moment. "Come on, let's get you upstairs. Do you want me to find Alice or someone to help you up, or can you make it on your own?" he asks after a pause.

Mary gets up, stretching and waking up a little. "I'm tired, Pete, not tipsy. It's just butterbeer," she says crossly, then adds, "Oh, and Alice thinks Siobhan is perky."

"Perky?" repeats Peter with a grin as he stands as well. "Now that you mention it…"

He walks her to the bottom of the girls' staircase, then quietly bids her goodnight. She gives him a little wave as she starts to mount the staircase, which he warmly returns.

When he turns around, something chapped and insistent presses hard against his mouth.

It's Emmeline—_Emmeline!_—who pulls away, her cheeks bright red and a grin on her face. "I know. I'm sorry," she says immediately. "I'm going to regret this tomorrow, and I don't know what the hell I'm doing here, and I know you have a girlfriend—"

"Siobhan isn't my girlfriend," says Peter breathlessly, taken aback, his mouth miles ahead of his mind. "Not officially, anyway. We go out sometimes—"

"Stop talking so much," says Emmeline. It's like she's a whole new person after one conversation and a butterbeer or two, and he fleetingly wonders whether she's been bottling herself up, waiting for someone to take note of her. "I'm going to kiss you again," she says now, matter-of-factly, and Peter could swear that she's _glowing_, vivacious, alive.

"You shouldn't," Peter says, but they both know he doesn't really mean it.

He supposes that… she ought to be scared, and he ought to be flabbergasted, but—they're not. She's beaming, and he's nodding, and he kisses back the second time she leans in.


	20. November 14th: Mary Macdonald

**November 14****th****: Mary Macdonald**

So _this_ is what limbo is like. Not the faraway thing her parents tried to sell her at Sunday school—her dad decided her witching soul was damned anyway when he allowed her to go to Hogwarts—but why is she bothering with their hoity-toity ideas? No, she's in limbo like paralysis, a record skipping, time stopping and a moment freezing over.

This is the part before it gets old, Mary thinks, the little time she has to entertain pity instead of irritation. There's no getting around it: people will tire of her eventually. They'll call her a basket case, mutter a hex or turn a blind eye at the… would it be arrogant to call her lifestyle an absurdity, to say it's really that nonconformist? Either way, she's running out of time to be the victim. The game's going to end, Reg is going to win, and everyone will forget all about Mary Macdonald and her poor, broken heart.

This is the safety of healing, the comfort of transition—only she's not _going_ anywhere, she's just _here_, like limbo, falling in amber and fossilizing every time she sees her latest ex (and Mary's had a lot of exes but none that meantthis much). She has two options, while there's still time: move on or get him back.

She can't move on, and he won't take her back, but she'll settle for a compromise (a pretense or a lie). Anything's better than freezing in _this_ time.

There's an X through November 13th on the calendar that she keeps in her handbag, and not the kind that signifies her period. Six weeks she gave herself to recover from him, and those six weeks ended last night. Mary may have hung around the kitchens until midnight trying to work up the courage to catch him outside his common room and tell him goodbye, but when the clock struck twelve, she knew enough to sneak back into the common room and cast her lingering insecurities off onto the unsuspecting Peter Pettigrew. She and Reg are over now. What other choice does she have?

Surveying herself in the mirror, she almost doesn't recognize her ivory skin tone, the pitch-black color of her hair. Mary feels half diminished, half refreshed: Reg has reduced her, sure, but she's back down to her roots now (all puns aside). She's never really liked the way she looks before, always thinking her nose too pinched and her chin too short and her complexion too pale to suit her, but then, she's got different priorities now. Mary's no longer interested in being tan like Marlene or blonde like Alice, and she doesn't need any more of Lily's Glamour Charms to help her come into her own. She's just Mary, and if that bothers people—well, people didn't respect her much when she was trying to please them (herself) to begin with. The world isn't going to end; her hair can't fire any Killing Curses for want of Sleekeazy's, that's You-Know-Who's job.

If she still wants to catch up on the latest rumors every once in a while, that's fine, too.

So Mary doesn't bother to contain her excitement when she realizes why Emmeline is receiving the Spanish Inquisition from the other girls on Sunday morning. "Hold on a minute," she says dramatically, ripping open the hangings of her four-poster. "Like, am I hearing this right? Em _made out_ with Pete last night? _Em_? And _Pete_? Who has a _girlfriend_?"

"He said Siobhan isn't his girlfriend," mutters Emmeline, not making eye contact.

"She's as good as," says Alice, a little gentle and a lot scandalized. "Really, Em, what were you thinking? Stealing someone else's boyfriend is no way to start a relationship—"

"I don't want a relationship; it was just a bit of kissing," Emmeline says steadily.

Alice shakes her head and tuts, "Then that's almost as bad, isn't it, risking breaking up Peter and Siobhan over _a bit of kissing_! I thought you were more sensible than that."

Marlene breaks in, "Don't kid yourself, Alice, we all know you and Lily are the sensible ones." Mary glances quickly at Lily; she's blushing a little, rolling her eyes. "Em's just the least, you know… _rash_. I mean, Merlin, have you ever had a boyfriend before?"

"No," says Emmeline, pulling on her robes.

"Kissed a boy?" Marlene persists.

There's an ever-so-subtle pause, then: "Yes."

No one knows quite what to say to this, but Mary, thankfully, is still enough of a gossip to fill the conversational void. "_Who_?"

"Er…" Emmeline is at a complete loss for words at first, her face heating up, until she finally manages to whisper, "Sirius."

Try though Mary and Marlene might, they can't get her to say another word on the subject. Alice keeps Emmeline talking, though, interrupting, "All right, then—damage control. The whole of Gryffindor must know about this by now; how in Merlin's name were you planning to explain yourself and spare Siobhan what little heartache you can?"

"I, er, wasn't?" says Emmeline, very hesitantly. "Peter can take care of himself."

Alice looks fairly indignant at that, but Lily says calmly, "It's not _all_ Emmeline's mess to clean up, Alice. It's not like she came onto him intending to steal him away no matter what he wanted; the whole thing looked pretty voluntary on Peter's part from my angle. If he were really all that faithful to Siobhan, he wouldn't have, er…"

"Snogged the daylights out of Em in front of the whole house," Marlene fills in without a trace of modesty. "He's the one who'll have to explain himself to her."

"But why did you kiss him in the first place, Em?" asks Mary eagerly. "Maybe it doesn't matter to Siobhan, but that doesn't mean it doesn't _matter_."

"We had a row," says Emmeline, like it's the most natural thing in the world. They gape at her, and she goes on, "He called me out on some things… it was sweet of him to notice. I had to—well, I had to thank him _somehow_, didn't I? Show him that he, erm, got to me. And maybe, er, that wasn't the _smartest_ way to, but… I was lonely… we'd won the game, everyone was so _happy_. It felt a bit like it would all work out, like I could do something bold without worrying about the consequences for once."

Em's reasoning is bizarre, and she looks mortified to be saying all this, but Mary can certainly relate. She _did_ relate last October at Hogsmeade—trying to salvage just one kiss, one minute with the bloke that matters… "And is that what it meant to Peter?" she says.

"I don't know; we didn't really get a chance to, er, _talk_ last night," says Emmeline with chagrin.

Sighing, Alice says, "Then you'd better get downstairs and figure this all out with him." _Before someone gets hurt_, she seems to imply.

Still blushing, Emmeline nods. _Sheepish_, Mary realizes, that's the word for Emmeline's behavior. It's still not friendly, but it's personable, at least, a step closer from the coldness of the past year or two.

Whatever Peter said to her must be working.

By lunchtime, it seems everyone has heard about the celebratory party—Meghan McCormack sneaking out of the Hospital Wing to attend and Peter snogging Em. Veronica Smethley knows all about it when Mary catches her in the Entrance Hall after eating, at least, and Mary knows _she'll_ make sure word gets around by the end of the day.

"It's just _unbelievable_, you know?" says Ver, thirsty for details. "I mean, I just didn't think Vance would do something that _slutty_. She's so holier-than-thou all the time. And Pettigrew's not even good-looking! I'll bet he couldn't believe his luck, having _two_ girls be interested in him at once…"

"Em's not a slut, and Peter isn't ugly," Mary says stiffly.

"Whatever. You know, I never liked either of them," Ver maintains, gesturing accusingly. "I mean, Merlin, Mare, you are the only one who's tolerable out of all the Gryffindors. Honestly, it is a damn shame that you got Sorted in with that lot. I don't know how you put up with them, what with the way they parade around acting like they're so much better than the rest of us with their _drama_ and their _wealth_ and their _popularity_—and it's like, no one even likes them except each other. They're so caught up in their superiority that they don't—"

"—You know what, Ver, would it kill you to lay off of my mates every now and then?" interrupts Mary tersely. "I don't expect you to like them or anything for me, but, like, it's my house, too."

Ver rolls her eyes. "You don't have to defend their behavior just because you share a dorm with them," she says.

"I shouldn't have to defend them! They don't always like _your_ house, but that doesn't mean they go around badmouthing you to me all the time, and I wouldn't let them if they did, so pay them the same courtesy," Mary says, exasperated.

"I don't know, Mare, I just don't see what you see in any of them," mutters Ver, "and it's about time you realized that you deserve better mates than that."

Mary says, "They're not as bad as you say they are, you know. Like, how can you judge them when you don't even know them?"

Ver snorts derisively. "I don't have to 'get to know them' to see what they're like. I just have good judgment like that."

_You're such an effing hypocrite_, Mary thinks—but she holds her tongue and says it a bit more nicely. "First impressions don't mean as much as you act like they do, Ver. Look at Lene—you're down on her _all the time_ about her and Gilderoy when she doesn't even like him that way, but I never heard her say a word against Greta when she was going out with Sirius, and you should know by now that Lene and Sirius had a thing going."

"It's McKinnon's own damn fault that she couldn't see that Black was using her. Anyway, she _knows_ that Gilly and I are meant for each other, but if she really _weren't_ egging him on, you wouldn't see him still talking to her. It's been a _month_, Mare! Gilly isn't that daft!"

"You'd be surprised. Wasn't it his fault that Davy almost lost an eye to the Whomping Willow?" Mary says. "It's not that I don't like Gilderoy, but you can't blame Lene if he's interested in her. That's on him."

Ver still isn't satisfied. "Merlin, Reg dumping you must have really put you through the wringer if you're acting this anti-Hufflepuff because of it," she says dismissively.

"Shut it about me and Reg. Let me know when you're ready to stop acting like such a bitch to everyone, yeah?" says Mary, thoroughly fed up with Ver at this point. Ver protests, but she leaves her behind, slinging her bag up her shoulder and mounting the staircase in pursuit of her common room.

Her irritation with Ver carries through the week, enough that she brings it up to Peter the next day. "What do you think of Veronica Smethley?" she asks him midway through first period, when everyone else is in Charms. They're the only two Gryffindors who dropped the class this year, and it's become their tradition to spend Monday mornings playing wizard's chess in the common room. Though Mary's always been terrible at mind games, she's been slowly improving with Peter's help, and she's four points ahead of him in today's match.

A moment passes as Peter concentrates on the board, his small eyes narrow with intent. "Knight to d5," he says finally and glances up at her. "Smethley?" he then repeats, blinking. "The Hufflepuff you're always hanging around? She's… er…"

Of course he'd never say anything outright cruel about one of Mary's friends, she realizes with satisfaction: she was right about her mates in yesterday's argument. "Like, what do you _really_ think of her? More and more lately, I've been getting the feeling she's an arse."

"Erm," he stammers, "if you're going to put it _that_ way… I can't say I've ever liked her very much. She doesn't seem like the kind of person I'd trust with things."

"I think you might be right about her," Mary sighs. "She's always so ready to trash everyone else for their flaws. Not that it's the worst thing in the world to want to _know_ things, but, like, is it really okay to be the one spreading the rumors? Rook to f5."

"Pawn to g4. Yeah, I know," empathizes Peter. "People aren't always who you think they are," he adds at an afterthought, resting his cheek in his hand.

She looks up at him again, biting her lip. "I know. Look at Em—talk about radical changes. Have you talked to her since Saturday?"

"I've barely seen her," Peter admits, coloring. "I keep putting it off until I haveto in Transfiguration tomorrow. I just… I don't even know what that _was_. How can I talk to Em about it when Siobhan still believes that I've been cheating on her all along? We didn't ever _say_ it was exclusive, exactly, but telling her that isn't going to help, and it'll only make things worse if she sees me with Em and gets the wrong idea…"

Surveying the chessboard, Mary mulls this over. "Er… rook to g5. Pete, is Siobhan important enough to you that you want her to be your girlfriend?"

"What do you mean?" asks Peter, baffled, as he raises his eyes from the board.

"You keep saying that she wasn't your girlfriend when it happened, so you think she should forgive you. But do you _want_ to make it official, or are you just stringing her along? Because if you don't want a commitment, she shouldn't have to take you back," says Mary.

Peter slouches a bit in his seat, looking utterly overwhelmed. "Good point," he says finally. "I just don't know… I wouldn't ever _string her along_, but I don't…"

"If it's taking you, like, this long to make up your mind, that probably means that she doesn't mean enough to you," she says gently. She hates advising him to be alone—look how _she's_ doing without a boyfriend at her side—but knowing what Sirius has done to Marlene…

He knocks his king over in resignation and straightens up. "You're probably right," he says meekly. "I just wish everything were less confusing with Em. She's hard to figure out."

"Em's a pretty private person," Mary agrees, starting to clean up the chess pieces. "I have half a mind to think there's something huge she's covering up… I wish there weren't, like, so many secrets with her, you know?"

"I wish there weren't so many secrets with _all_ of us," Peter echoes darkly.

* * *

"Could you work with Paul today?" asks Carol Davies as Mary enters the Arithmancy classroom, poised to toss her bag at her usual seat.

She blinks, hitches the strap of her bag back over her shoulder. "With _Paul_? Really?"

"Just the once. Please—I promised Frank I'd work with him instead today. Someone's got to talk some sense into him over this Dana Madley nonsense, and it would be a little conspicuous to ask Remus to do it and raise Alice's attention," Carol explains.

Mary's intense hatred of Paul Patil is not a very well kept secret. They get along all right for Greta Catchlove's sake, but everyone knows that he's too smug for her and she's too dumb for him. Still, Carol's doing it for Frank and Alice, and it's not Mary's place to complain about talking to Paul for her—he _did_ ditch Carol for Greta. "Paul. Okay, yeah, I guess so."

So she relocates, much to Paul's confusion. "I thought you worked with Davies this hour," he says. _Implied 'get the hell away from me' free of charge_, Mary thinks bitterly.

"She's staging an intervention for Longbottom," says Mary shortly, pulling out her copy of _Numerology and Gramatica_. When Paul quirks a skeptical eyebrow, she adds, "Dana Madley? Don't, like, try and tell me you haven't heard about that."

"It's not like the man needs a bloody _intervention_, Mary. It's his life, let him do what he wants with it," counters Paul as he digs around in his bag.

"Says Greta Catchlove's boyfriend," Mary mutters.

He straightens up and glares hard. "And you've spent the last month pining over Reginald Cattermole, of all people. What's the difference?"

"Yeah, well, that's over now," she says firmly—it's not a lie if it'll be true soon. "You may get better marks than Reg, but you look pretty pathetic in comparison, leaving Carol for Greta last summer. _Come on_."

"Remind me again what my taste in women has to do with Frank Longbottom," says Paul.

As she's starting to attract attention, she lowers her voice and softens her gaze. "Only that there's a pretty strong parallel there, don't you think? He picked Dana over Alice—"

"He wasn't going out with Abbott to begin with," Paul says. "What's it to you? Greta's your mate—you're one to talk about _my_ tastes—and anyway, it's just Hogwarts, it's not like it matters who I snog for the next year and a half."

"You know what, Paul, it does matter," says Mary hotly. "You may be an arse, but there are people here who care about you, don't ask me why, and even if _you_ don't give a rat's arse about _them_, you ought to at least respect that and not, like—not toy with their feelings."

To her increasing fury, he's losing interest and starting to doodle along the edge of his parchment. "Like you have any business giving out relationship advice," he snorts.

"I never said I have all the answers, Paul, but, like, this is about Frank and Alice and _being happy_, and you can't tell me not to be invested in that. It may not matter to _you_, but it still matters," she insists.

He laughs—actually throws his head back and laughs in her face—and says, "You mean to tell me that Frank is sissy enough to worry about sentimental sap?"

"I can't speak for Longbottom, but I'm sure he doesn't really give a damn about Dana Madley, and I know for a fact that Alice gives a damn about _him_," explains Mary as patiently as she can. "I don't care if you don't understand it, but don't go… giving Frank bad advice or, like, insulting me for trying to protect my mates, yeah?"

Paul's smile is self-satisfied as he replies, "If you don't care if I understand, then why are you telling me all this?"

"You're infuriating," she groans. "Shove off and go work with Lupe or something."

"Damn, Mary," says Paul, packing up his things, "and here I was hoping you cared about more than just _feelings_ and _boyfriends_."

She throws back at him, "So sorry that I'm not enough of an intellect for your fancy. Tell Greta hullo for me next time you two have a substantial conversation, will you?"

As he smirks and walks toward Remus and Alice's table, two rather frustrating things occur to Mary: first, that he seems to have _enjoyed_ all this; second, that she can't answer his question—she has no idea why she confided anything in him at all.

Mary wishes she could talk to Marlene about him, that she could talk to Marlene about anything anymore, but she doubts it. Marlene's with Lily these days, their recent row aside. And to whom else can she turn? She loves Alice, but Merlin, she's a little too hoity-toity for relationship advice. Em may be warming up to the girls again, but who's to say that she won't revert the minute Mary approaches her?

Before she knows what she's doing, she's heading straight from class to the Hufflepuff common room entrance. She misses Reg; she really, really…

"Were you waiting for someone?" Mary turns, startled; a third or fourth year girl is approaching, looking a little snappish. "You're a Gryffindor, right?"

"Yeah, I was looking for Re—er, for Gilderoy," she improvises—he's the first (well, second) Hufflepuff she thinks of. "Gilderoy Lockhart. He's a sixth year. Do you know him?"

The girl snorts under her breath. "Who doesn't, with his mouth?" she says, mostly to herself. "Just give me a minute. _Muffliato_," she adds, and Mary can't hear the password over the ringing in her ears as the girl slips into her common room.

She slumps against the opposite wall, closing her eyes and letting the tinny sound fill her up. Merlin, she's got to get a grip on herself. It's hardly been two days since she cut herself off; Mary can't go running back to Reg _now_, not this soon.

When the ringing subsides, she looks up—Gilderoy's taken off the hex and is coming out of his common room. She sees a flash of bright yellow before the still life painting seals itself again over the entrance. "If it isn't my darling Mary Macdonald!" he cries as she opens her eyes, seizing her hands and engulfing her in an emphatic hug. "It's been too long since our last chat! Tell me, what lucky stroke of fate was it that brought you to our little nook of the basement today?"

"Just stopping by," says Mary evasively, but she changes her mind—she could use someone to talk to, anyway, and Gilderoy has done nothing to deserve dishonesty. "Well… I was going to see Reg, but then, like, I figured that wouldn't be a very good idea."

As Gilderoy pulls back, still gripping her shoulders, his face takes on a look of concern; he purses his lips and shakes his head, tutting. "I know," he tells her with a sigh. "I was so sorry to hear of your falling out with Reginald last October. _For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the pangs of despised love?_" He pauses for a moment, staring morosely at her, then gives her shoulders a forceful little shake and adds, "From Shakespeare's _Hamlet_—an abridged quote, at least. Marlene will certainly be impressed, don't you think?"

"Gilderoy, I'm sorry, but I just… don't think Marlene sees you that way," says Mary as gently as she can, maybe a little hesitantly.

She should have known that he wouldn't be that easy to dissuade. "I've been working my way through the great soliloquies in all the Shakespearean classics," Gilderoy informs her, retracting a hand from her shoulder to gesture purposefully to his right. "A little Christmas surprise for the light of my life."

Mary bites her lip—she'd hate to crush his vision of love, but then, it's better in the long run that he know the truth. That, and Marlene may kill her if she doesn't try to talk him out of it when given the opportunity. "To be honest, like, I don't even think Marlene has ever heard of Shakespeare. She's a pureblood, remember? They have things like—like _God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs_ and _Moontrimmer_, not Muggle poetry."

"All the better to enlighten her!" Gilderoy cries delightedly. "Or perhaps she would believe it if I told her I had written them myself?"

Mary bursts out laughing, but at the hurt expression on his face, she sobers up enough to tell him, "Come on, Gilderoy, that's unethical, you can't. Anyway, you'd know the truth, and that sort of, like… I dunno, negates it, don't you think? If she even believed you, I mean."

"I suppose so," says Gilderoy, his face falling. "Dear Merlin, what could Sirius Black possibly have that I don't? Can she honestly not see that we're _made_ for each other?" Histrionically, he falls to the floor and buries his face in his hands.

With a half incredulous, half sympathetic sigh, Mary crouches down beside him and squeezes his hand. "They have a complicated relationship. They've been on and off for years; Marlene's not just going to forget about him and fall for you the minute you show interest," she explains patiently.

"Do you suppose she would be jealous if I took up with Veronica?" he asks with a hint of hopefulness, peeking at her through his fingers. "Never have I seen the likes of that girl's loyalty! I reckon she would agree to it if I asked her."

"I don't think that's a very good idea," says Mary, for both Gilderoy's sake and Ver's. "I know you have your heart set on it, but if Marlene isn't interested, she's not interested."

Gilderoy doesn't reply for a minute, thinking this over. "Ah, well, it was worth a good shot," he says finally. "Besides, you know what they say: absence makes the heart grow fonder. She'll come around soon enough."

"If that's the way you want to look at it," Mary mumbles, smiling a bit.

"But look at me, prattling on about my own woes, and such insignificant ones in comparison!" declares Gilderoy. Mary laughs again at this—he has a funny way of showing sensitivity. "What about Reginald could possibly render you so upset?"

She leans back, resting her head against the wall. "I dunno. He was always such a nice bloke, and… it's not even _him_, really, it's just… I get lonely, you know?"

"I… well, yes, of course," admits Gilderoy sheepishly, looking a little embarrassed by this.

They sit together for a while, both mulling over their respective situations. Mary's the first to break the silence, saying, "My parents were always really religious. They're Catholics, you know, so they hate anything to do with witchcraft."

"Oh?" Gilderoy says, looking at her with a mixture of interest and concern.

"Well, not so much Mum anymore, now that she knows that her daughter's a witch, but Dad didn't want me to go. They tried to get me to repent for being a witch at Confession on Sundays, but the letter said it was top-secret, and I never trusted the priest there, and…" She trails off for a moment, reflecting. "They're divorced now—Dad couldn't accept it in the end. And then I _came_ to Hogwarts, just when I'd gotten done breaking up my family over it, and I'm not even… Merlin, look at my marks, I'm not even a talented witch, and everyone hates me."

"Don't be so dramatic, Mary, I'm sure that no one hates you!" says Gilderoy genially.

She shoots him a glare. "Don't be so _optimistic_; everyone hates you, too."

"On the contrary, I'd have to say that everyone _adores_ me," he says, half proud and half indignant.

"Marlene doesn't adore you," says Mary.

This gets to him, at least, and his grin falters a bit. "I don't hate you," he says quietly, and Mary feels a rush of guilt and affection for him. "And anyway, what about those Gryffindors that Veronica speaks so poorly of? I'm sure they can't be _that_ unbearable. There's Marlene, of course—and Alice Abbott, I've always been fond of her. Emmeline Vance… _eh_, not so much, but I'm sure that _she_ likes _you_."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," says Mary, but she can't stop herself from smiling at him. "Like, for what it's worth, I don't hate you, either."

He smiles back, then pats her hand and stands. "Well, now that we've cleared up our allegiances for the day, I must be going," he decides, helping her up. "Things to do, soliloquies to learn!"

"You're not one to give up easily, are you?" asks Mary, shaking her head. "So this is the part where you hex me and I can't hear the password, right?"

Gilderoy stammers for a moment, finally managing, "Yes, I'm terribly sorry about the way she treated you back there. House rivalries, you know. But Dorcas Meadowes will have them all shaped up in no time, don't you worry! Just don't attempt to break in anytime soon, or I might have a situation on my hands with the younger years," he says with a wink. "_Puffskein_," he adds commandingly in the direction of the painting, and it swings forth to admit him.

She almost misses it, but Mary catches a glimpse of Reg before the painting blocks her view—looking taken aback, his mouth in a small "O", and staring straight at her.

Turning on her heel, she leaves before she can do anything dangerous.


	21. November 18th: Sirius Black

**November 18****th****: Sirius Black**

Sometimes, Sirius thinks he might have been better off in Hufflepuff. He knows that he doesn't _belong_ there, per se: Lockhart and Cattermole's lot are far from his ideal roommates, and he doesn't know if he could stand to deal with Veronica Smethley's catty theatrics full-time. If there's one thing Sirius can't help but do, it's to make a statement, and to him, Hufflepuff just isn't bold enough for that.

Despite this, though, the theory seems so _appealing_ at times. Gudgeon's a dimwit, but he's a loyal dimwit, isn't he? Maybe Sirius couldn't love them, but he could at least trust them, and considering that Remus still isn't talking about the last full moon… Sirius feels that he could use a little more faith in his allegiances right about now. Sirius may not be thick, but he knows he's not clever enough to doubt the right people. If Sirius were in Hufflepuff, his family wouldn't loathe him. If Sirius were in Hufflepuff, he'd have mates who didn't have anything to hide from him.

Sirius isn't thick enough to think it a veritable possibility, to succeed in Hufflepuff. He's the breakout rebel, the Black Gryffindor, the walking paradox, the match for James Potter and Marlene McKinnon; he's no Hufflepuff, and he knows it.

But he puts a hell of a lot of faith in people for a Gryffindor.

"A word, Sirius?" says Andromeda at the end of Defense Against the Dark Arts. He's halfway to the door, but reluctantly stops, returns, and tosses his bag onto the nearest desk. James raises an eyebrow, but Andromeda adds, "Go on ahead, James; we'll only be a minute."

Warily, he leaves James behind and approaches his cousin, maybe a little defensive from the outset. When the door finally snaps shut, he lowers his eyes and waits for the lecture to come.

Andromeda doesn't disappoint. "Saw you play against Slytherin last weekend," she says with borderline casualness, crossing her arms. "Must feel good to have been so instrumental in that win, mustn't it? To have landed your brother in the Hospital Wing after that Bludger he took?"

"It's a Quidditch game, not a duel to the death, _Professor_," says Sirius, finally meeting her eyes. (Their particular shade of brown isn't soft enough to keep out the ice after his response.) "I wanted to win the game."

"You wanted to punish Regulus," Andromeda counters.

He explodes, "Not everything I do is about this goddamned family, and it's about time you believed that!"

She wavers for a second, just looking at him with her mouth half-open. "Sirius, the only reason I took this job was to look out for you. I think I've held you back after class enough times that you've figured that out by now. After you ran away last summer…" she says finally, heaving a sigh.

With a rush of something like resentment mixed with guilt, Sirius says halfheartedly, "I can fend for myself, Andy; I don't need a babysitter. Just because I left home-"

"-I know about Marlene McKinnon," says Andromeda, silencing him instantly. "The Sirius I know doesn't treat _anybody_ like that."

"You don't know what you're talking about," says Sirius, fuming. She doesn't understand: Marlene isn't the issue. Marlene is his safety net and the thorn in his side, Marlene is collateral damage, Marlene is the _one_ person in his life he knows won't run away no matter how horrible he is, and he knows he's been pretty horrible, but James has Lily and Peter has Emmeline (_Emmeline!_) and Remus—well, frankly, Sirius doesn't know what the hell Remus is doing, but he doesn't trust it, he doesn't trust _him_, and Andromeda doesn't know shit about what that's like.

He doesn't bother hearing her out, even though he's been alone with her for less than a minute. "Leave me the hell alone," he says, and her protests fall on deaf ears as he picks up his bag and jogs out of the classroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

(Sirius puts a hell of a lot of faith in people for a Gryffindor. And when that trust is broken…)

Sirius isn't much of a brooder; when life gives him lemons, he's not exactly going to accomplish a whole lot by glaring at them, is he? Maybe he's dysfunctional, maybe he's rash, but if he jumps into something and gets it wrong, well, at least he can say he made the effort. Everybody ought to be a little rasher in life, Sirius thinks; but enough thinking.

Yeah, it's unwise, but he never claimed to be the brightest bulb in the box. Sirius is impulsive; surely his history with Marlene and Emmeline and all the others is testament to that. In fact, Marlene's usually the one he goes to at moments like this, but carrying out all those bad ideas with her is starting to catch up to him, it seems, and he honestly doesn't have the patience to remind himself of all that baggage right about now.

So he doesn't go to Marlene. He goes to Belby.

He's surprisingly difficult to track down, even with the help of the Map, as he seems to be splitting all his time between the Slytherin common room and conspicuous public places. It isn't until Friday night that Belby finally retreats to the library—alone.

Sirius seizes his chance and hardly gives Belby five minutes to settle in before he's down there, panting, seething. He's got seventeen years of rarely released anger to unleash, and anyone who messes with Remus evidently needs to be taught a lesson.

"I'm sorry, Black, was there something you needed?" says Belby coolly, running a finger past titles on the shelf and not once raising his eyes.

Snarling, Sirius lunges for him, knocking his wand out of his hand and pinning him against the bookshelf. Belby can try to smooth-talk his way through whatever he wants, but when he's facing off a Quidditch champion in a show of physical prowess, he's bound to fall short. He chokes and splutters, mostly dramatically, as Sirius tightens his grip on his neck. "_Shut up_, for Merlin's sake," Sirius spits, and Belby quiets, face purpling and eyes bugging out, but breathing. "Now tell me what the _hell_ you did to Moony."

Belby says nothing. "_Answer me_!" Sirius says, a roar and a whisper all at once.

All Belby can do is cough. Sirius slackens his grip but lodges his wand between Belby's chin and Adam's apple, just to make his threat clear, and sneers, "Not so suave when you're in real danger, are you, Belby?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Belby wheezes, backing as far into the bookshelf and away from Sirius as is possible.

"Don't lie to me!" demands Sirius, jabbing his wand into Belby's throat for emphasis. "Whatever you're up to has got him so damn jumpy that he's lying to his mates and sneaking around, and it's your goddamn fault he ended up in the Hospital Wing covered in bruises breaks this week, I _know_ it! You may be a fearful pansy ass, but if you honestly think you can get off with pushing around one of my mates-"

Belby says frantically, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead, "I didn't do anything to him, I swear to Merlin! Dammit, I'm _helping_ him! Let _go_ of me!"

It's all Sirius can do to keep from _Cruciating_ his sorry arse to the grave. Unsteadily, he breathes. "Didn't look like you'd been _helping_ him when he wound up lying half-dead in a hospital bed a fortnight ago," he says.

"He would have been _all_-dead if I hadn't been there before Pomfrey came to collect him," says Belby hastily. "I'm not trying to get him _killed_; it's just more difficult than I thought it would be-you aren't supposed to know, _no one_ can know-"

Sirius is so shocked that he forgets he's supposed to be threatening the bloke. His hands drop to his sides, and he hisses, "You know about-about-goddamn it, I'm going to _murder_ Snivellus!"

"_Snape_ knows?" says Belby, though he looks considerably less shaken now that he's gathered his wand off the floor. "He didn't… I figured it out myself; I'm not thick, you know."

"Could have fooled me," says Sirius, not even bothering to think through whether the insult is honest or not. "Save yourself the trouble and don't screw around with Moony anymore, Belby. Whatever the hell you think is helping him _isn't_."

Belby doesn't reply at first, massaging his neck and training his eyes to the floor. After a heated silence, he raises his gaze to Sirius and says calmly, "You'd make a wonderful Death Eater, you know. Just the right mix of intimidation and ignorant loyalty."

His _insolence_, above all, is what sets Sirius over the edge. "_Conjunctivitio_!" he bellows, smirking for just a moment as Belby's hands fly to his eyes before adding for good measure, "_Petrificus Totalus_!"

He leaves Belby there, eyes burning and unable to do a thing to alleviate the pain. If Pince doesn't kill him, Dumbledore will, but Sirius is beyond caring. No filthy bastard is going to eff with Remus, even if Remus himself is too thick to appreciate it.

Maybe growing up _toujours pur_ has permanently scarred him; maybe he just plain doesn't have a conscience, but Sirius feels no remorse. Sirius doesn't feel _anything_, save perhaps a sort of distant appreciation of his apathy, now that he's blown off steam. Belby never turns him in, probably out of terror-good riddance, Sirius figures with some satisfaction-and the week progresses as normal, or as normally as it can these days, anyway.

He comes of age. It reminds him of the relatives that aren't his family and the house that's not his home, and he doesn't like to talk about it, and the Marauders know better after this many years than to celebrate it, so his birthday passes largely unnoticed.

Quidditch is the following Saturday, Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw. They made plans weeks ago to all go together, the Gryffindor sixth years and he, but it falls apart at the last minute, spiraling after Lily backs out. James and Marlene aren't happy, but as she puts it, "This weekend, I'll finally be allowed to meet the junior ambassador I'll be shadowing for the first time in preparation for an International Confederation of Wizards meeting two weeks from the game. You think I'm going to pass that up for a Quidditch game that none of my mates are even playing in?"

From there, Mary and Alice decide it's all right for them to skip the game for their own internships, too. Emmeline denies ever having been interested in the first place but, to everyone's surprise, consents when Peter asks if she'll go to it with him, "just as a chance for us to finally figure all of this out," of course.

In the end, the only ones going are himself, Remus, James, and Marlene. Sirius is none too happy, but he keeps his emotions in check and his mind on the game.

"Kicking off the game here, Kirley McCormack from Hufflepuff takes possession of the Quaffle, to no one's surprise—Hufflepuff Captain Elisabeth Clearwater has put her efforts into building a strong Chasing/Keeping front for the season. With all four house team's Seekers being especially talented this year, her strategy is to cancel out the unpredictability of Seeking outcomes by scoring as many goals as possible before the Snitch is caught, the net effect of which Hufflepuff hopes will win them the Quidditch Cup in the spring." After her dissatisfaction with the commentary on the game last fortnight, McGonagall's replaced Mike McKinnon with a pudgy-looking girl that Sirius doesn't know, though judging by her narrative style, she's probably a Ravenclaw.

Remus seems to have gotten the same impression. "She's a good commentator," he remarks as Hufflepuff scores its first goal. "It'll be interesting to hear all the back-story on strategies and everything, don't you think? Gives you a feel for the context of the game. She's smart to approach it like that… in Ravenclaw, probably."

"And it'll help us prepare for our match against Hufflepuff in February," muses James. Sirius tears his eyes away from the action to glance at him. He's narrowing his eyes like he does when he's been struck for a prank idea. "If Liz has been focusing on her Chasers, I almost wonder if we should pull Fabian out and make Meghan our Keeper for the game…"

Frowning, Marlene says, "The Prewett twins have been on the Gryffindor team since they were third years; you really think that replacing Fabian with an inexperienced _fifth year Seeker_ is going to improve our chances against Hufflepuff's strongest Chasing front in years?"

"It'll be risky," James admits, "but think about it. Meg's always wanted to play Keeper; she's been practicing at it for years at home by playing Kirley. On the one hand, Kirley will know all her techniques, but if he doesn't know that we've switched her position until game day, it might throw him off… and _she'll_ know how _he_ plays, so won't that give her an advantage in blocking his goals? And she can get us familiar with how the Hufflepuffs play beforehand so we'll know what to expect from them during the match, whereas _they'll_ be practicing to beat Fabian's Keeping style and won't be prepared for Meg when they learn about the switch," he explains, keeping his voice low in the hope that no one overhears.

Unconvinced, Marlene presses, "You'll have to be _so_ careful not to let the word spread before the game, if you're going for the element of surprise… and besides, even if putting Meg on as Keeper _does_ help us win more goals than the Hufflepuffs, it still means losing our Seeker and giving Benjy a much better shot at catching the Snitch. Meg's never lost a game yet as Seeker, and even if you did pull it off by replacing her against Slytherin this month…"

They're silent for a minute now. It's a dreary day for a game, all muggy and overcast and unusually hot for November. Humidity stifles him; sweat bubbling across his skin dizzies him, and every couple of seconds, he reaches to swipe the wetness out of his eyes and off his temples, struggling to breathe clearly.

Sirius mulls it over while watching the game, listening to the in-depth commentary: "And a Bludger from Ravenclaw prevents Jones once again from shooting! Ravenclaw's strength this year is in its Beaters: Bernhardt has experience, Flynn raw talent, whereas Hufflepuff's Beaters are both new to the team this year and seem to be having a hard time finding their footing. This is the third time that Bludgers have kept Hufflepuff out of the scoring area, and out of the four attempted goals Hufflepuff _has_ made, Shacklebolt's blocked half—not bad against _this_ team of Chasers. Even if Ravenclaw's Chasers will struggle to score, the supporting players are stopping Hufflepuff from gaining the early advantage they'd been hoping for."

"That's it," murmurs Sirius suddenly, realizing. "That's it," he says again, louder, to his fellow Gryffindors. "It's all about the long-term strategy, isn't it? Dorcas Meadowes is _good_—if anybody has a real shot at blocking most of Hufflepuff's attempted goals, it's her, and you have to admit, my brother's a good enough Seeker that he'll be able to catch the Snitch with the Carrows' help. Hufflepuff is a strong team, might even be the strongest team at Hogwarts this year, but they're not infallible. Ravenclaw's holding their own against them, Slytherin can hold their own against them—Prongs is right. Fabian's good, but Hufflepuff, sorry to say, is probably better; if we're going to stop their Chasers, Meg is the person to do it. She'll throw them off."

"And the Snitch?" prompts Marlene, crossing her arms.

Sirius says shortly, "I'll see to it myself that Benjy Fenwick gets _nowhere_ near the Snitch this February. Bring it up to Gid at next practice, Prongs; I'll back you up."

"I don't like it. Using deception as your strategy… it feels dishonest," Remus says softly.

The crowd roars; Hufflepuff's scored again, bringing the game total up to thirty to nothing. "We're well within our rights to keep our tactics a secret," defends James.

"It's not deception; it's _thrill tactics_. You can't rely on schemes like that if you're serious about winning," says Marlene, still suspicious.

"There's nothing wrong with a little risk," breathes Sirius. "Nothing wrong with a little deceit."

Grinning, James says, "You're up to something, Padfoot."

He keeps his eyes fixed on the pitch, unsmiling because James doesn't _understand_. "Just thinking of a little talk I had with Belby last week. It's nothing. I've already taken care of it," he says in clipped tones.

Sirius doesn't look, but he doesn't have to. He knows Remus; he knows that his friend's bound to turn pale. "Belby?" Remus asks, voice wavering. "Why would you want to do something to-to Belby?"

_This is it_, Sirius thinks, composing himself. Hufflepuff scores a fourth goal. When he knows he can keep his face straight, he turns to Remus and says calmly, "Only because I know he did something to you."

No one knows quite what to say to that, so Sirius goes on, "Sneaking around, keeping secrets… it's not like you, Moony, and don't think that none of us have noticed how afraid of him you are lately."

"So you went to teach him a lesson?" says Remus, his voice unnaturally high-pitched. "Do you have _any_ idea what you've done?"

"I've put him in his place, that's what I've done," says Sirius gruffly.

"No, you haven't. Dammit, Padfoot, you…" Remus is breathing heavily, closing his eyes, visibly upset. "He's enough of an arse that you probably haven't stopped him, but from now on, Padfoot, stay out of it. It isn't what it looks like."

Sirius snorts, "Oh, so he's _not_ trying to kill you and land you in the Hospital Wing?"

"He's trying to keep me _out_ of the Hospital Wing from now on. If what he's doing works…"

Taken aback, Sirius and James exchange a glance. _Out_ of the Hospital Wing? He can't possibly mean that…

"Does one of you want to explain to me what the _hell_ you're on about?"

Marlene. Of course. "Back off, McKinnon, this isn't your problem," dismisses Sirius.

"The _hell_ it isn't my problem, Black. Don't expect me to stay quiet and play the part of your ignorant _bitch_; if Lupe is in trouble, I have the right to know about it, especially when you don't seem to have a _shred_ of patience and insist on flaunting your knowledge about it right under my nose!" she snaps, turning redder and redder as she speaks.

Sirius moves to fight her, but before he can get a word out, Remus says quietly, "My mum isn't sick, Marlene." Hufflepuff scores; at this point, Sirius has lost track of how many goals they're up by. "My mum isn't the sick one, _I_ am, and Belby's trying to-to cure me."

"It's incurable, Moony," says James as gently as he can. "Belby may be arrogant enough to think otherwise, but-"

"You don't _know_ that!" Remus explodes. "I've been dealing with this for half my life; it's worth a shot, isn't it? Maybe it's curable if people would stop treating it like it… like it's not worth curing, all right? He spent months developing the potion, and I tried it _one time_, and it didn't work, but of _course_ it didn't work, these things take time, there's a whole process, and I've seen the recipes, he's not faking me out. I know he's an arrogant arse, but he's not going to _kill_ me, so can you all just back off and let me try and get better?"

He's pushing his way away from them now, bowing his head with embarrassment and shoving his way past the crowd. "Where are you going?" James calls after him, half impatient, half concerned.

"Crashing Em and Wormtail's date," Remus yells back, whipping his head around to glare.

"Don't let them hear you calling it that-" James tries to warn him, but Remus worms his way past a clique of fifth years and is gone.

Ravenclaw wins, a hundred and sixty to ninety. Hufflepuff seemed bound to win it for sure, demolishing the opposition at the goalposts, but Dirk Cresswell edged out Benjy Fenwick for the Snitch, and that was that. On the one hand, the strongest team of the year lost its first game, giving Gryffindor an advantage and making James's plan to switch Meghan McCormack's position that much more likely; on the other, it just goes to show that Sirius ought never to count on anything anymore.

He catches up with Mary after that (because James is love-struck and Alice wouldn't understand and Lily doesn't know him and everyone else is part of the problem), tracking her down after dinner and taking her for a walk across the grounds. It's still too hot and humid, but he loosens his robes and brushes his hair off the back of his neck and tries not to mind, and Sirius wants to tell her, tell _somebody_, that his family broke him and Marlene weakens him and Emmeline is an old sore reopened, but he can't find the words, and Mary is staring at him with impatient mouth agape, so he just shakes his head and says, "You're smart for spending so much time with the Hufflepuffs."

She clearly doesn't know what to say to _that_. "And why's that, exactly?" she prompts, shifting from foot to foot.

"Less drama," he answers.

When Mary bursts out laughing, he realizes how absurd it sounds. "_Less_ drama? Like, have you _met_ Veronica Smethley before?"

"Yeah, but it's petty drama; it doesn't count for anything, doesn't _affect_ anything," Sirius explains, backtracking. "When you spend a lot of time with Smethley, you just hear about other people's dramas. Spend too much time with your own housemates…"

"Did something happen with Marlene?" asks Mary with concern. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He doesn't say anything. Then, finally, "Not with Marlene; not specifically, anyway. Just…" He thinks back to the Quidditch game, how Remus doesn't trust his judgment, how he cut Marlene down and then Remus left and she _looked_ at him and it…

"There's hundreds of wizards in this school, thirty-three sixth years, eight other Gryffindors in our year, and most of the time, I still feel totally alone," says Mary. She doesn't meet his eyes.

_Cattermole_, Sirius recalls. "I'd tell you to give it another shot with him if he makes you happy, but I'm not really in a position to talk," he says with a little self-deprecating snicker.

"Does Marlene make you happy?" Mary asks, her eyebrows furrowed and voice solemn.

He sighs and throws back his head for a moment, the air falling heavily on him, the _enormity_ of his mistakes sinking in. "I dunno. Not anymore… not really. Not like that. It's just easier, sometimes, to go to her than it is to deal with all the rest of it."

"Then you need to end it," she advises, giving him a sympathetic smile.

Sirius refutes, "No need; it's already over."

"Not properly it isn't. You need to end it for real, with, like, actual closure this time. The two of you can't keep doing this, Sirius," says Mary. He flicks his hair out of his eyes and doesn't say anything; she gives his hand a supportive squeeze.

Abruptly, Mary plants herself in front of him and stops walking, nearly causing him to run into her. "It would be a terrible idea for me to ask you out right now, wouldn't it?" she asks, twenty percent hopeful and eighty percent amused at the thought.

And he hates himself for seriously considering it, even if only for a moment, before he turns her down. "Yeah," he mutters, "yeah, it would," and as he leans in to kiss her on the forehead, he holds himself over her, just for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of her hair.

Screw Hufflepuff. Screw all of it. Sirius is _done_ with faith.


	22. November 28th: Remus Lupin

**November 28****th****: Remus Lupin**

Until now, he'd forgotten what it's like to feud with Sirius. They've already been through a similar situation, after the Snape debacle in fifth year, but that time Sirius was the offender and Remus was the one caught in the middle. The way Remus saw it at the time, James had every right to be angry, though he himself wasn't. No, it was Sirius who shunned James at every turn with reactionary fury, failing to acknowledge his own wrongdoing.

In a roundabout way, using Remus to try to hurt Snape was the best thing that Sirius had ever done to strengthen their friendship. Before those pained months of recovery, it had always been about Sirius and James. Afterwards, at first hoping only to get a rise out of James, Sirius latched onto Remus, but the constant closeness soon advanced their relationship to one of respect and admiration. No longer did they follow the hierarchy of ringleader and tagalong; they soon became genuine equals. The two boys' newfound mutual understanding was, in fact, what brought James and Sirius back together in the end: realizing Remus's dangerous role in the situation motivated Sirius to apologize to James as well as Remus, and with that hurdle passed, the rest of the mending fell right in line.

Perhaps the memory of that confusing time explains why the Marauders' second schism is that much more difficult for Remus: having come out of that first row so much closer to all three of his mates, Sirius's spurning of Remus for James feels like ten painful steps backward for them all.

Working with Belby, trusting Belby with his life, with his secret, is a risky move. Remus gets that. But if anything, he'll need his mates more than ever to get him through the fallout. Without _somebody's_ support…

Sirius refuses to try to see eye-to-eye with him. That's bad enough. But Sirius also takes James out Peter is dealing with enough in his life that Remus doesn't want to unload his own burdens onto him, and he doesn't need any of the girls figuring out what he is at a time like this, especially when Marlene already knows too much.

At first, he's tempted to seek out Dorcas or Kingsley and ask to take on extra prefect duties, but on second thought, he'd rather avoid their suspicion. Heck, even hanging around Belby or Regulus Black for a day seems like a preferable alternative to the nightmare that has become Gryffindor house at a glance… but then, Remus is desperate, not masochistic.

He goes to Lily. Swiping the Marauder's Map out of James's bag before anyone else is up, Remus dresses quickly and then waits inside his hangings until the moment Lily Evans is alone and decent.

Luckily for him, she's been an early riser ever since she came off her Dreamless Sleep Potion back in September: they're two of the first ones to breakfast. "Hey, Lily, do you mind?" Remus says by way of greeting, approaching her in the Great Hall and tentatively taking the seat beside her that James usually occupies.

"Well…" she says, hesitating. Lily's not one to reject a friend in need, but Remus knows how awfully close she and James have been getting lately.

"Don't even bother considering it, Lily; he's probably going to be hanging around Padfoot a lot more than usual today," he says, dismissive and a little dejected.

Lily sets down her fork, twists around in her seat, and looks him properly in the eye. The full moon is a week from tomorrow, so he's already looking under the weather; coupled with the stress he's been under lately, the sight of him probably isn't especially pleasing to the eye.

"James mentioned that there was a blowout at the game yesterday, but I didn't realize it was that bad," she says, her voice laced with worry. "Are the four of you going to be all right?"

"I hope so," says Remus, reaching for a platter of pancakes. "I don't know how I'm going to do it without them."

"Do what?"

And because he's just too tired to fight his only ally and she already knows too much anyway, he tells her, "Belby's working on a potion to cure… my furry little problem. I agreed to be his test subject last month. He hasn't been able to get it to work yet."

If he weren't so exhausted, he'd probably be amused by Lily's startled reaction: her mouth opens and closes, opens and closes, as she gapes. "Yeah, that's what they thought, too," Remus tells her, taking a too-big bite of toast and quickly washing it down with a swig of pumpkin juice.

Studying him, Lily's not eating anymore. "It's not that," she says gently, "but I can't blame them for thinking that you're making a mistake. Remus… your _problem _has been around for as long as wizards can remember, and nobody's been able to cure it yet. I know it's your choice to do this, but you have to admit, that doesn't seem very promising."

"Gee, thanks for the support," says Remus morosely.

"That's not what I meant. I see where Sirius is coming from; that doesn't mean I agree with him." Remus looks up as Lily continues, lowering her voice to speak freely, "Lycanthropy has been around for thousands of years, but do you know how long it's been since the last known attempt to cure it? Centuries, Remus. Even during the Wizarding Renaissance of the 1400s, no one even suggested studying it. The last time anybody took interest in werewolves, magical theory wasn't nearly advanced enough to treat them, and now that we might have the knowledge to take lycanthropy on again, the stigmatism has become so accepted that people no longer view it as something that could possibly be treated."

Still, Remus isn't convinced. He wishes that he were confident in Belby's plans, but he's not. Faintly smiling, Lily murmurs, "You know what the last thing was that wizards tried to use to cure this? Feeding werewolves monkshood. Wolfsbane, Muggles used to call it—this was long before the International Statute of Secrecy. It killed most, paralyzed the rest—a whole lot of good Muggle folklore did for werewolves, huh?" She shakes her head and pours herself more pumpkin juice. "Sirius has a point, but he's not studying History of Magic at the N.E.W.T. level."

"Prongs is," Remus points out glumly.

"James," says Lily, laughing, "only even took that class because he knew I'd be in it; everything he hears in that class goes in one ear and out the other. Look, even I have reservations about you working with Belby, if only because he's too young to have strong potioneering experience, and because he's got a shady character to boot. But don't think you're wasting your time on a disease without the possibility of a cure. For all we know, the only reason people think that it can't be treated is cyclical thinking, and if nobody else is willing to try to beat the odds than Belby… well, he's a smart bloke. I can't say I trust him after what happened last month, but you're not stupid… for all we know, this could have a wide-scale payoff for the entire werewolf community one day."

Remus isn't quite sure what to say to that, so he just keeps eating breakfast and avoids Lily's eyes. Sighing, she promises, "I'll talk to James. It'll be all right, Remus."

"Thanks," he says softly with a tentative smile, glancing at her and laughing as he realizes she's raking a hand through her hair just like James. "You know, you told Prongs that made him look stupid once," he says, nodding to the gesture.

Lily freezes mid-motion and cracks a smile in return. "A lot has changed over the last few months," she admits.

"Speaking of change," says Remus (he spends enough time dwelling on his affliction, so he figures it's a worthwhile distraction to take interest in Lily's life instead of just his own), "when is it that you're leaving for France again?"

"The tenth," she replies, breaking into a proper grin at the mention of it. "I leave after History of Magic, right before dinner. My ambassador says I can Side-Along-Apparate to Paris with him and do a little sightseeing the night before, and then they're having a two-day convention with the French seats on the International Confederation of Wizards that I'll be sitting in on. The Confederation is having a full meeting in January, so beforehand, they'll be discussing the issues and deciding what propositions that France as a body will bring to the Supreme Mugwump. That's Dumbledore, actually, but all he can really do is mediate the discussion, it's a very democratic setup."

She pauses for breath, full of excitement. Remus can tell she's been very much looking forward to this. "Do you know whether the war with the Death Eaters is going to be discussed?" he asks.

"Oh, I'm sure it will be," Lily assures him breathily. "I know the British are seeking to get international backup for the war at the meeting this winter, and if we can get support from France, that'll be a huge step in convincing the rest of Europe and, in turn, the entire Confederation. It's hard to predict how France will react to the request, but since there's a chance that You-Know-Who's going to set his sights globally and would probably take on France next if he conquers Britain, we're hoping they'll want to keep his influence out of their country and prevent the problem before it even starts for them," she explains.

"Huh," says Remus, mulling it over. The most he knows about the war is the names of his classmates' parents or friends who have been claimed by Death Eaters yet. He doesn't know a lot about international politics, but even so, he hopes to Merlin that France will see sense and step in. "We'll all be hoping for the best for you and your ambassador when you leave," he tells her before biting into his pancakes.

She thanks him, smiling. "That reminds me; I've got to get down to the Ministry to meet with him again in a couple of hours…"

"Before you go, you wouldn't want to go down to the library with me to get a head start on that Defense Against the Dark Arts paper, would you?" Remus asks, trying to keep the pleading out of his voice. "It's just… with all that's going on right now between me and Padfoot and everything…"

He needn't have worried: Lily must remember from last year what it's like to feel alone in one's own house and year. "Yeah, of course," she says mildly, pushing away her plate and slinging her bag over her shoulder. "I had a couple of questions I wanted to ask you about it anyway…"

He can spend all the time he wants hiding out in the library to study on Sunday, but as he's painfully reminded in Charms the next morning, he'll have to face his situation sooner or later. As Peter dropped the class with Mary this year, Remus won't be able to work with them like they always had every week. He knows when he's not wanted.

To his surprise, however, Marlene waves him over before he has a chance to be the odd one out of their class of seven. "Want to partner me today, Lupe?" she proposes innocently enough, clearing a space for his books on the tabletop.

"What about Em? Don't the two of you usually work together in here?" he asks, even as he's taking her up on her offer.

"Lily and Alice can have her today," says Marlene dismissively, tossing her copy of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six_ a little too harshly onto the desk. Glancing furtively at James and Sirius's table in the back and probably failing to conceal his wistfulness, he thinks of the strangeness that's sprung up between Sirius and Emmeline as of late and wonders if that has anything to do with the change of pace. Is it too complicated between the three of them?

Oh, who is he kidding? It's been a long time since anything was simple between _any_ of the nine of them. As if in confirmation of this, Marlene clarifies her real reasons (in Remus's mind, anyway) with her next words, spoken deathly softly: "You said you were sick last Saturday."

Remus heaves a sigh: he should have known that this conversation was coming sooner or later. "Look, I'm sorry about everything that happened at the game," he apologizes, twirling his quill between his fingers and avoiding her eyes. "It wasn't fair to bring that up in front of you and then leave you in the dark. It was rude, and you deserve better than the way we all treated you and took you for granted."

She's not resentful like he'd expected her to be. No, on the contrary, she seems a little taken aback. "Thanks, Lupe, but that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. If anybody owes me an apology on that count, it's Black."

"Ordinarily, I'd explain it on his behalf to spare you the trouble of another argument, but I'm afraid I'm in no position to speak for him at the moment," says Remus heavily.

"Lily told me you're rowing because of what happened," Marlene says, pursing her lips.

Heart sinking, he asks, "Yeah? Did she tell you anything else about what's wrong with me?"

"No, nothing like that," Marlene assures him, resting her elbows on the desk and her chin in her hands. "Believe me, I've been trying to get her to spill that secret for a while now, but she won't budge."

"How long have you been suspicious of me?" says Remus dubiously.

With a sardonic little laugh, she answers, "Don't tell me you've forgotten that I know your excuse for being in the Hospital Wing last month was a lie."

"Of course," Remus mutters, mostly to himself.

For a moment, neither of them says anything, the last of their classmates trickling into the room as they wait for the bell to ring.

"Lupe, for what it's worth, I don't think Black has any right to be mad at you," says Marlene, finally breaking the tension. "Upset I could understand, if he had your best interests in mind, but _accusatory_… that's not his place. 'S your life," she tells him, sounding weary. "He's probably just worried about whatever's wrong with you: he and J made it sound like this treatment you're attempting with Belby is pretty risky. He'll come around."

"I hope so," confides Remus, and in that moment, he desperately wishes that Fenrir Greyback had never bitten him.

He's a little startled the next time she speaks, whispering, "When you say you're sick…"

"It isn't deadly," he promises. "It's just… something I have to live with." More like _live around_, but Marlene doesn't need any extra clues, as far as Remus is concerned.

"I hope that's the truth," she mumbles. "Lupe, whatever it is, I'm not going to-to flip out about it, you know that, right? However bad your health is, we'd all stand by you. All anyone wants is for you to be safe."

_Try telling yourself that when you realize I'm the danger to everyone else_, he thinks, but he can't explain it. Marlene wouldn't understand, not without knowing he falls under the highest possible Ministry of Magic classification in _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_, and Merlin help him if any more people ever find that out about him. "Thanks, Marlene," he says instead, feigning comfort and flipping open his textbook as Flitwick begins today's lecture.

The first few days carry on just the same, Remus taking refuge in books and spells and, occasionally, the girls. It's not until Wednesday that he finally gets James alone. Though, considering the treatment he's been getting this week, he's not sure whether the company will be something he'll appreciate.

He's surprised into silence when James wordlessly takes the seat next to his in Ancient Runes, but it doesn't take Remus all that long to confront him about it. "I know you disagree with what I've been doing, but I didn't realize that a difference of opinion warrants _abandonment_, Prongs," he says earnestly.

The instant he says it, he half regrets it. James doesn't look at Remus at first, rubbing his eyes and massaging his temples, and Remus wonders whether all of this has been taking a toll out of him, too. "I'm not mad at you, Moony, but you know how Padfoot gets when he's upset, and I just didn't want to… escalate any of that," he says, at long last, to explain. "I'm sorry. All this must be horrible for you."

"Yeah, you could say that," Remus half agrees. He's glad they're not casting runes today, as that would require total silence for precision; the class is working on compositions instead, so with a bit of help from _Muffliato_, he hopes that he and James can talk some of this out. "Usually I'd just go to Peter for support, but he has enough on his plate already, and besides, I…" He pauses, shakes his head. "You remember what it used to be like before this past year, and I don't want to be the reason we go back to that," he says, dipping his quill into his inkwell to try to diminish some of the melodrama he knows is packed into that statement.

"Moony…" begins James, weary. "You and Wormtail are two of my best mates now, even if it wasn't always like this. Nothing that happens between us is going to change that."

Doubtfully, Remus says, "Remember what it was like last year when you and Padfoot were rowing? Everybody's always thought we're inseparable, but half the time, I still felt like I was just getting to know the two of you… after five years of Marauding, and of you lot making sacrifices for me and my condition, mind you," he adds, shaking his head. "I could never wrap my head around it before… why you'd disregard the law for the sake of someone you didn't necessarily know you could trust."

"Don't think like that," interrupts James sharply, but he says nothing by way of rebuttal.

Sighing, Remus continues, "And then we all split up, and _I_ felt like I was getting closer to you and Padfoot as individuals, but between the two of you… I mean, you withstood that whole situation, in the end, because you two had the tools and the closeness to get through that. But Prongs, what if Padfoot and I aren't strong enough to get through this?"

"Oh, Moony," says James at long last, bursting with emotion and empathy. If this were a sappy novel, Remus figures, they'd be crying and reuniting and falling all over at this point. But his life is no novel; everything he's withstood in the lycanthropic half of his lifetime has been of conflict without resolution, of flat action with the occasional bump up or down along the way. "You and Padfoot are going to come out of this _just fine_, all right? I promise you that. I'll ask Lily to talk some sense into him about it; maybe he has a problem with Belby, but that doesn't mean he has to have a problem with _you_."

"You know how he gets, Prongs," Remus says dubiously. "When he gets the idea that he's right and you're wrong…"

He thinks of Sirius's blind intolerance of Death Eater sympathizers like Belby, his friend's familial rejection, and Remus can't say he blames Sirius, but he can't say it doesn't make him worry for their future, either.

"I know," says James, fatigued. "I know."

It seems that Lily and James made good on their promise to talk to Sirius, because by the end of the day, things are more strained than ever. Remus is still avoiding the Gryffindors whenever he can, but when he awkwardly returns to his dormitory for the night after an hours-long stint in the library and sees the look on Sirius's face, he's not sure whether he regrets being so distant or wants to run right back out of the room. He feels out his reaction for a split second before it seems to settle on anger.

"Where've you been?" demands Sirius, his voice dangerously quiet.

"Like you couldn't have checked the Map for the last five days to find me," Remus says bitingly. He ought to back down, he _knows_ that, but it isn't fair and _nobody's_ taking his side and he's had a lot of time to brood over that since the game last Saturday.

It isn't good enough for Sirius, not that Remus had expected it to be. "If you honestly believe there's _nothing_ wrong with going right back to Belby on Monday night after all of this-"

"-I talked to Lily on Sunday. Historically speaking, the notion that it's impossible to cure lycanthropy resulted from a load of prejudice and misconceptions," says Remus with what little patience he has left. "And I trust that Belby's not doing this to hurt me; he'd be too afraid of getting caught and putting himself at a disadvantage to ever try to hurt someone-"

"-Oh, so you'll trust Belby based on your _impression_ of his character? If he's wrong about this, you're going to be the one paying for his mistakes, and he's not going to do a thing to help you for fear of risking his own sorry comfortable lifestyle, you _do_ realize that, right?" erupts Sirius. "And yet you still think he's trustworthy? Or are you just conveniently going to neglect to factor that chance in?"

Maybe a bit childishly, Remus retorts, "Well, in that case, it's not like there'd be an antidote for whatever ended up getting me hurt, so it won't really matter whether Belby's a coward or not, will it?"

"And Lily? You'll ask _her_ for advice at the drop of a hat and won't tell us what's going on with you for a full month?" Sirius retaliates.

"For the record, you and Prongs were the first to find out about this," says Remus hotly. "Is _that_ what this is about? Your sorry ego can't handle my right to privacy? Ever consider that maybe I didn't want to tell you because I didn't trust you to take it any more maturely than this?"

This time, he knows for sure that he shouldn't have said it, but even if Sirius is broken up about it, well, _so is Remus_, and his mates can't take away his own damn right to defend himself when it's _his_ life, _his_ choices. He shuts Sirius up, at any rate, and notices Peter (shocked) and James (disappointed) for the first time in the silence.

To hell with it, Remus decides, retreating behind the curtains of his four-poster. They've already judged him enough.

Is it wrong that he's relieved the next time he's in Belby's company? As agreed before the secret came out, they meet in the library after Potions on Friday, Belby bringing a revised copy of the recipe for which to get Remus's approval. "If you think you can manage a bit of intellectuality, I had a couple of suggestions to run by you," says Belby with his usual superior drawl.

But Remus doesn't trust his indifference, not for a minute. "Look, before we start," he begins, waiting till Belby makes nervous eye contact before he says any more, "Padfoot told me there was a confrontation. Whatever he said…"

"Not so much," says Belby airily, rummaging around in his bag for the recipe. "There wasn't a whole lot of talking involved. A bit of wandwork, some idle threats-"

"Wait a minute, do you mean that Padfoot _harassed_ you?" Remus interrupts. He's not entirely sure why he's so surprised, when he stops to think about it: Sirius _has_ been on the rampage lately. "Did you get away from him all right?"

"Clearly," says Belby with a hint of sarcasm. Remus makes a face; he's losing his fear of Belby by the day. "At least, I took steps to ensure that the fourth year who found me will never tell a soul of the condition I was in at the time. No harm done."

He takes a breath, steadying himself, and tries not to consider just how ugly it must have gotten. "Well, whatever he did, I don't want you to listen to a thing he told you. It's none of his business what I can and can't do about my health," says Remus.

"As if I'd ever heed a piece of advice given by Sirius Black," Belby says crossly, but Remus isn't worried, taking it as consent. "If that's all, I want us to try adjusting the quantities of the ingredients this month. We know they're not going to kill you if we don't add drastic amounts of silver, for one thing, and I'd rather play it safe than jump into a whole new recipe and take even more risks until we know we've exhausted the current plan. Considering the kind of hysterical reaction you had the last time, perhaps we should add belladonna extract or take away one of the Alihosty leaves, but in what proportion is the question…"

Truth be told, Remus doesn't have a clue what kind of reaction he had the last time, to put it in Belby's words. The potion hadn't worked; his mind still hadn't been his own; all he remembers is Belby helping him into the castle and leaving him to stumble his way, a bloody and half-unconscious wreck of a man, into the Hospital Wing. But it's all right: no potions master can be expected to get something as complex and uncharted as a lycanthropic cure right on the first try.

Remus trusts Belby with this, and that's more than he can say for anyone else in his life.


	23. December 9th: Alice Abbott

**December 9****th****: Alice Abbott**

"Give me your wands," says Professor Tonks, more exasperated than anything. They're anything but eager to comply, Sirius and Marlene in particular, so she repeats, "_Your wands_, please," with the kind of intonation that means she doesn't intend to take no for an answer.

Grudgingly, they hand them over. Marlene hesitates to relinquish hers at first, and there's a split second of tug-of-war between her and Tonks before she lets go, still fuming. Evidently, she hasn't blown off a whole lot of steam since class today.

To be honest, Alice hasn't a clue what any of her fellow Gryffindor sixth years have been up to since leaving the Hospital Wing, and maybe that's part of the reason why they've found themselves in Tonks's office—why an otherwise carefully controlled session of dueling practice in Defense Against the Dark Arts spiraled out of control the way it did. It seemed like an explosion of spellwork and hostility at the time, Alice reflects, a whirlwind of anger and tension unleashed that ended before it felt like it had started. In retrospect, though, Defense class that morning didn't so much explode as fall apart, all their suppressed resentments unraveling into a mess of an illegal duel, curses flying everywhere, no allies, nobody safe.

Now they're in detention, their first time together since the incident, and Alice is passing her wand to her professor and wondering how such a close-knit group of nine witches and wizards devolved into this.

"I'd like all of you to clean the classroom by hand," announces Tonks as she tucks the wands into her robe pocket. "I want the floor swept and mopped, blackboard cleaned, tables scrubbed with the gum scraped off from underneath, windows wiped, essays filed by year and house—you get the idea. You'll find all the necessary Muggle supplies in the cabinet by my desk. I'm locking you in and giving you until midnight; when I come back, this room better be _sparkling_, and you all better be on fantastic terms with each other, do you hear me?"

Marlene still looks ready to put up an indignant fight but, mercifully, restrains herself as Tonks sweepingly departs. The door clicks shut; Alice holds her breath and waits for the chaos to ensue.

Lily is the first to break the silence, sheepish and soft-spoken. "Can I just say—I'm sorry I hexed you, James. It wasn't my place—Marlene can fight her own battles—"

Awkwardly, James shakes his head. Alice guesses that this isn't the kind of thing he wants to confront her about until they're alone. "It's all right; you were just defending your mate. I got carried away, it's my fault we started dueling, I retaliated—"

"Can you just snog and make up already, spare the rest of us from having to hear all the sap?" says Marlene sardonically.

"Shut it, McKinnon, it's not like that," James says. He stares at the floor and avoids all eyes for a moment, then adds with an edge to his voice, "And even if it were, from what I hear, you're not in the best position to judge what a healthy relationship looks like."

Marlene looks ready to lunge for a minute, and Alice is half afraid she _will_, but she holds back, merely retorting, "All right, fine, I don't know what the hell I'm doing with my life, but that doesn't mean I need anyone else's happiness shoved down my throat."

James starts to speak up, surely in Lily and his defense, but Lily interrupts before he has the chance. "We're not happy, Marlene," she says; "none of us are—why else would we be sitting in detention right now?"

"Speaking of sitting around," Peter pipes up quietly, "we should really get a move on and start cleaning. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish."

"Shut it, Pettigrew, nobody cares what you think," says Marlene dismissively, to which Peter just glares a little but says nothing.

When Peter doesn't defend himself, Remus steps in to do it for him. "I care," he says, "and anyway, he's right. You can't refuse to do the work and land us here in another week when it's your fault we're here in the first place."

"_My_ fault? _Black_ was the one—"

Alice is a prefect; her job is to mediate in situations like this, and once upon a time, she was good at mediation. Right. "Marlene cast the first underhanded spell," she says with as level a head as possible, talking over Marlene as she bitterly protests this fact, "but it's all our faults for reacting the way we did and getting involved. Professor Tonks said—"

"Eff Tonks," mutters Marlene.

She reiterates, "_Professor Tonks said_ to clean up the classroom and work out our differences that caused the duel, and it's a pretty smart idea for a punishment, when you think it through, so can we please just follow Peter's lead and get started?"

They break out the supplies in the cabinet and set to work. Broom and dustpan in hand, Alice assigns herself to floor duty and starts sweeping with renewed empathy for Muggles. How do they _stand_ this, honestly?

Of course, compared to the task of patching up the holes in these friendships, cleaning the classroom will be a piece of cake, Alice realizes within minutes.

Emmeline talks next. (Alice is fast getting weary of this pattern: somebody speaks, somebody squabbles, and sooner or later, everything disintegrates into silence, secrets, and hushed and hateful words. She can't take it much longer. She doesn't know why they've all taken this for so long—)

So Emmeline talks next, saying, "So are we going to get group therapy over with or what?"

"Yeah, Marlene, what possessed you to defy the rules and throw enough unruly hexes at me to land me in the Hospital Wing for the day?" says Sirius mockingly. He's still nursing wounds from this morning, holding up to his left eye a cloth dipped in some healing solution or other.

"_Padfoot_," says James warningly, and Sirius backs down. "Look, we're not going to get _anywhere_ if we pin all the blame on Marlene, all right? McKinnon and Padfoot are not the only ones at fault for this. We've been lying to ourselves and each other for too long now, and it's about time we admit it."

"So we're just going to sit around in a circle and talk about our feelings now, are we, Prongs?" says Sirius irritably.

"No," says James, "we're going to scrub this room clean, and we're going to tell everything."

Meekly, Mary echoes, "Everything?"

"Everything."

Something of a painful silence follows. Alice is starting to recognize more and more just how disconnected from each other they all are. "Fine," says Marlene, still disgruntled, "then why don't you tell us what the hell your deal is with Black and Lupe?"

Paling, Remus protests, "Marlene, I really don't think that's such a good—"

"You know, honestly, J, if he's _so sick_ and meddling in something _so dangerous_ because of it, don't you think that as his _mates_, we have the right to know?" Marlene continues bitterly, ignoring Remus completely.

Wide-eyed, James says, "Marlene, that wasn't what I m—"

Alice interrupts, startled, "Remus is sick? With what?"

"Why haven't you said anything?" says Mary.

Stammering, Remus says hastily, "It's not that simple—"

"Eff it." Sirius. All eyes turn to him. "He's a fucking werewolf, and he's letting Damocles Belby use him as his lab rat in the search for a cure that he's _not_ going to find."

It's the kind of statement that should warrant a dramatic pause, but what follows instead is absolute madness, Alice reflects. "You _bastard_, Padfoot, that wasn't yours to share!" erupts James, slamming his fists on the desk he's scrubbing down for emphasis; a shaking table leg knocks over his wash bucket, and soapy water sloshes everywhere, dousing Alice's feet.

She's still processing this as Sirius retorts, "Someone's got to call him out! He's making a _colossal_ mistake, and since none of us can knock any sense into him—"

"Merlin, Sirius, how many times do you have to be told that it isn't a mistake? There's _no_ logical reason to think that there can never be _something_ out there to at least lessen the effects of lycanthropy," says Lily now, squaring her shoulders and eyeing him down.

"Wait, backtrack, you knew about this?" asks Mary, her tone almost accusatory.

Marlene confirms, "And didn't see fit to bother to mention it to me."

"You mean to _us_," Mary says, her anger directed at Marlene now. "Not everything is about you and Lily, Lene."

"And what's _that_ supposed to mean?" Marlene shoots back.

"Cut the crap, Marlene, you know exactly what I mean!" shouts Mary. "You've replaced me with her, poor little orphan Lily, just because her Death Eater best friend dropped her and her parents died, but, like, that doesn't mean _I'm_ petty and worthless just because I used to dye my hair blonde and read Witch Weekly. Dammit, Lene, you were the closest thing I had to family; I thought that _meant_ something to you!"

From the looks of it, this shocks Marlene into silence, just long enough for Peter to cut in, "Merlin, how self-centered _are_ you?" Mary slumps against the blackboard, shame-faced; Marlene takes a deep breath, steadies herself. "Maybe I'm crazy, but I think my best mate's lycanthropy trumps whatever misunderstandings you two have right now."

"On the bright side, at least they don't seem to think it a complete scandal," mumbles Remus, smiling halfheartedly.

"I'm sorry, Lupe," Mary apologizes, head bowed. "I can't even imagine what that's like for you."

Alice's mind is reeling. Remus, _their_ Remus—a werewolf? All her life, she's been raised to believe that werewolves are both a joke and a menace—soulless wizarding outcasts that she used to laugh off even as she prayed to Merlin she'd never encounter one. It's the wizarding way, to hate and fear that particular line of bestiality—and now the joke's on her, that she's been living with a werewolf for the last five and a half years of her life. It doesn't add up. It can't add up.

If she feels awful about it, it must be a thousand times worse for Remus himself; she knows that. To be on the receiving end of that kind of persecution… Remus isn't the stereotype for a teenage werewolf, not at all, and he certainly doesn't deserve any of the intolerance and ridicule that come with it.

"I feel terrible," sighs Alice, resting her hands on the top of her broom handle and not even attempting to fight off her overwhelming guilt.

"You would, wouldn't you?" Emmeline muses. Alice stares. "Always going out of your way to feel the most politically correct emotions in every circumstance… it's getting old, really."

Alice isn't quite sure _what_ to say to that, blurting, "Forgive me, but I thought this was about Remus."

"It _is_ about Moony," says James impatiently, "so Padfoot, for Merlin's sake, if you have so little trust in Belby's potion, why are you angry with _Moony_ because of it?"

"Because he knows better!" Sirius says, fuming. "Because he can't trust Belby, and this whole half-arsed plan is stupid and reckless and bound to fail—"

Peter interrupts, "You know, Padfoot, that sounds a lot like the kind of principles you live by."

"Shut it, Wormtail," says Sirius, exasperated. "Dammit, Moony, you're going to end up either dead or ousted from the wizarding world when this goes wrong, and I think I have the right to be mad at you for throwing your life away."

"He isn't going to end up—" Lily tries to say.

Remus says over her, "Thank you, Lily, but it's all right. Padfoot… it's my life, and I know what I'm doing with it."

"I hope you do," says Sirius darkly.

Smiling a bit, Remus says, "Well, he hasn't killed me yet, has he? I have a lot of input on the recipe… if with nothing else, I trust Belby with this, at least not to do me in on purpose."

"Moony could use our support, you know," Peter suggests, timid but standing his ground. "If he's wrong and really is throwing his life away, he's going to need us to be there for him more now than ever."

Sirius doesn't speak, just goes back to scraping the gum out from under a desk with a penknife. Alice reflects on how much this whole setup sounds terribly like a clichéd empathy card: _All I want is to be there for you in your time of need_…

"Remus, why didn't you just tell us?" asks Mary, distress laced into her expression, her intonation.

After a moment, Remus answers, "I didn't want to burden you with it. It's a lot of responsibility to carry that around."

"Says the werewolf himself," Mary says to this, smiling faintly. "You don't have to carry it alone."

"How was I to know whether it would have been too much to pile on all your plates?" says Remus. "Everybody has something they're hiding; I didn't think it was my place to judge my secrets to be heavier than any of yours."

Alice speaks, finally, overwhelmed and exhausted—and they're only twenty minutes into this detention. "I, for one, can say that my problems are nowhere near as burdensome as yours. Merlin, I've been feeling sorry for myself all this time just because Frank Longbottom's dating a tramp and I felt like I couldn't come to any of you about it, and here one of my best mates is a _werewolf_."

Marlene snickers a little at this, but as James starts to round on her, she quickly explains, "You called Dana Madley a tramp. I never knew you had an inner potty mouth, Alice."

"Shut _up_, Marlene, it's just the truth," says Alice, laughing herself a little now.

"Just ask Prongs; he almost dated her once," a grinning Peter chips in.

Blushing a bit, James defends, "Well, why else do you think I didn't go through with it?"

The laughter dies down, a tentative silence now setting in. To break it, Lily says slowly, "You could have come to us—you could have at least come to me. I know I haven't been the greatest mate to any of you before the last few months, but you've all come around for me in ways I never imagined you could; the least I can do is return the favor when any of you are in need."

"I know I can relate, with everything that's happened between me and Reg," Mary pipes up. "It's hard. You shouldn't have to deal with it on your own, even if it seems stupid."

"Thanks, guys," says Alice. She shifts from foot to foot, the water James spilled completely soaked through her shoes at this point. "I should get a mop and start cleaning this up…"

"I ought to help you with that," James volunteers, leading the way to Tonks's cabinet of cleaning supplies.

They're back to scrubbing in silence for a minute now, and Alice can't decide whether the tension is lesser or worse than before. Remus Lupin, a werewolf… she can't reconcile it. She _can't_.

Eventually, Mary starts to say, "Lily, what I said about you and Marlene—"

"No, it's fine, I get it," says Lily, shrugging. "You miss your friend. I can understand that."

Indeed she can, thinks Alice. "It's not fine. Maybe you appreciate the last few months, but, like, I know _I_ was never very nice to you for the five _years_ before that. You were my roommate; I should have been better to you," says Mary.

"It's in the past now, right?" forgives Lily, smiling weakly. "You didn't trust Severus, so you didn't trust me. I get that."

"Mare, for what it's worth, I miss us, too." Marlene. Alice is surprised she's speaking up and letting down her guard, but she can't say that she isn't glad to see it.

"Marlene…" begins Remus, clearly hesitant to speak. "I know that you probably don't want to talk about it, but we're supposed to be getting to the bottom of this duel tonight, and in order to do that, we're going to _have_ to address the hostility between you and Padfoot."

"You're right," she says stiffly, not missing a beat. "I don't want to talk about it."

Remus answers, sighing, "Well, I didn't want to talk about being werewolf, but you didn't seem to have a problem unveiling that one, did you?"

There's a slight, uncomfortable pause. "What's there to say? We used to be friends; now all we have is sex and lies—" Marlene starts to say.

Sirius interrupts, "_Marlene_—"

"Just shut it, Black, I don't want to hear it," says Marlene without even attempting a shred of patience. Alice doesn't blame her: if she were in Marlene's shoes, she'd have stopped giving Sirius chances a long time ago.

"It's not like that…" Sirius says slowly, inhaling. No one else speaks; Alice gets the feeling she'd be intruding to say anything at all in this conversation, and from the sound of it, so do the others. "You _do_ matter to me—"

Marlene accuses, "Just not as much as any of the rest of it."

"Well—no," Sirius admits, pausing for breath.

But before he has a chance to explain it, Marlene mutters, "Eff you."

"_Shit_," he curses. "No, Marlene, that isn't what I meant—"

"I'm just never going to be enough for you, am I?" says Marlene hotly. "I'm there for you as a friend whenever you need me; I let you sleep with me _repeatedly_ even when there are strict wizarding laws against it for minors; I go along with your dysfunctional cycle of dependence—"

"I never made you," mumbles Sirius, avoiding her eyes.

Unsympathetically, she answers, "Well, I wish I'd never allowed you to trap me, you know that? Dammit, Black, I wish I'd never met you."

He closes his eyes tightly and says with effort, "Marlene—I love you."

"How convenient."

He looks like he's been slapped in the face, physically recoiling at Marlene's answer. A little embarrassingly, Alice even finds herself suppressing a wince as she keeps mopping, head bowed and sneaking sheepish glances. "I know I'm an arse to you," says Sirius now, making and maintaining eye contact.

"No shit," says Marlene dryly.

Grasping at straws, Sirius asks, "Would this be easier for you if we broke up for good?"

She says bitterly, "Seeing as I didn't realize we were properly together, I can't say it would."

There's a drawn-out pause now as Sirius gapes and Marlene scrubs at the blackboard with a vicious amount of pressure. Alice wishes she could unlock the door and run out of this classroom, stop intruding on this moment; she wishes Tonks had never had the idea for this detention in the first place, even if it does help them all in the end, if only it would have meant that Sirius and Marlene would be alone for this.

"Do you _want_ us to be together?" Sirius tries again with incredulity.

"Not on your life," Marlene scoffs.

Another pause. It's gotten to the point that Alice averts her eyes.

And out of the blue, Mary tells them, "My parents are Catholic and got divorced because Dad couldn't accept that his daughter was a witch." Alice doesn't quite know how to react. "I just thought you should know that, like, you're not the only ones with messy problems."

"When my parents died…" Lily swallows thickly, then continues, "They left everything—our house, our savings—to my sister, Petunia. I always knew Mum got along better with Tuney, but I never would have expected…"

"Malicious even in death," James mutters, crossing his arms.

"James—"

"I never liked your mum, you knew that," he says shortly, but Alice knows he feels more empathy than anything. That's James.

Peter says, "I'm sorry, both of you."

Mary acknowledges, "Thanks, Pete," wearing a quiet little smile.

They've dropped a few too many bombshells today, Alice decides. For someone who tries to lead such a drama and confrontation-free life, it's a bit more than she'd been prepared to handle. "You know, what we really need is a chance to get away from all of this," she muses, still mopping. "Get away from the war, get away from our families… just get back to each other, really."

"Well, it can't be this weekend; I leave for France tomorrow," says Lily; Alice can't blame her for not sounding all that disappointed about it.

"Over the holiday, then," says James, and judging by his tone of voice, Alice would say that he's just had a light bulb idea. "Yeah, you can all stay at the manor for a couple of weeks. We have enough guest rooms for all of you, and it's the perfect time to reconnect, isn't it? Christmas spirit and all that."

Unperturbed, Emmeline declares, "Count me out."

"It's not optional," James decides, shaking his head, "_especially_ for you."

Marlene disagrees, "No, I always spend Christmas with Doc—"

"There's no need; you live with him full-time now," Lily reminds her, a smile growing on her lips. "We're in."

"Me, too," says Peter as Remus and Mary nod their agreement.

Turning to Sirius, James asks, "Padfoot?"

"It's either that, Grimmauld, or Hogwarts," he says with a shrug, "so it's not like I have much of a choice either way, mate."

"So it's settled?" Alice asks, leaning on her mop and looking between her friends' faces.

James nods, too, rumpling up his hair. "I believe this means it is."

They go back to cleaning in silence after that—not because they're angry anymore, Alice believes, but because they're drained, _done_, with nothing left to say to one another. It occurs to her that she has nothing of substance to share tonight—that somewhere amidst her determination not to get caught up in drama this year (or any year, for that matter), she somehow lost hold of her closeness to her mates.

No matter what any of the nine of them try to do to stick together, they all seem to wind up in the same position: far too far apart.

Alice mops and mops and prays to Merlin that Christmas at the Potters' will be a longer lasting solution than any old quick fix.


	24. December 17th

**December 17th**

Emmeline Vance is not a perfect person. Emmeline Vance is headstrong and judgmental and can hold a grudge like no other, and Emmeline Vance has always had a mouth that gets her into trouble. Before, she used to talk too much, say whatever crude thing was on her mind at any given moment; she chooses her words more carefully now, selecting the most scathingly articulate phrase she can before she speaks. It's rare these days that she talks at all, but when she does, she likes to think that it makes an impression.

Emmeline Vance is bitter and cold and withdrawn from the world, cocooning herself in the recesses of her spite—and of spite, she has more than enough, more than most consider healthy. Emmeline Vance has a lot to be spiteful for.

Emmeline Vance has a _lot_ to be spiteful for.

Peter is her ally these days—she didn't _really_ expect Margaret McKinnon to hold her interest for long. Besides, Peter knows her, knows her and somehow doesn't hate her, and he isn't to blame, and Emmeline can respect that.

It's December 17th, a Friday, and they're taking the Hogwarts Express back to King's Cross, heading from there to James Potter's manor, and Emmeline doesn't want to go, and Peter knows she doesn't want to go. They're taking the Hogwarts Express back to King's Cross, and Emmeline's snagged the window seat with Peter firmly planted on her other side, and her head rests on his shoulder, and the pads of his fingers trace along the crook of her neck.

"I don't want to go," she whispers, because Peter is her ally and she doesn't have to scathe him when they speak.

"You're going," says Peter, kindly but firmly, and he tilts up her chin so he can meet her eyes. "You're going, and you're talking to Padfoot."

She starts to complain, "But I don't _want_—"

"_Talk to Padfoot_," he implores her, and she settles against him again, rolling her eyes and fighting to forget that he's right.

It's raining against the window—what kind of a joke is that, rain to start off the Christmas holiday? It's raining, and he's right, and she's wrong, but she doesn't let herself know it.

Emmeline Vance can hold a grudge like no other, and the one she's harboring against Sirius Black has been festering for two years.

xx

**December 10th**

She's shadowing one of wizarding Britain's junior ambassadors to France, Lord Brinn, a handsome man with round, chocolate eyes and a sternness that doesn't suit his youth, and the first thing he does upon Apparating them both out of the country on Friday night is to whisk her into a café and order two butterbeers.

"We're not in Muggle France?" Lily asks.

Brinn confirms it. Sightseeing around Paris would apparently have to wait.

Then he directs her, "Recount to me everything you can remember about wizarding political relations between Britain and France and the position of each on the war against the Death Eaters."

She knows some—not everything. History of Magic taught her about British and French trading relations of past and present, and she talks about those till her mouth runs dry, throat raw. As for what France has to say about the war, she's not entirely sure.

Just when she thinks she's said all there is to know, Brinn jumps straight to an informative lecture. He's not much for small talk, Lily's starting to realize. "Modern French and British relations have been forming ever since the mid-18th century; while European Muggles were warring over the colonization of America, their wizarding counterparts' disagreement was about the magic employed by Native Americans. It was the first occasion in history that European and American magic ever overlapped, so although many spells, though involving different incantations, essentially accomplished the same feats, other American spells were completely foreign spells, strange spells, a lot of them involving necromancy."

"Raising the dead?" says Lily, enraptured. "But that's not possible—the dead can't be brought back to life successfully, there's never been a documented case—"

"That didn't stop the American tribes from trying," Brinn says, shaking his head, "and the results weren't always pretty. The French appreciated the Americans' studies and wanted to continue them, as well as adopt many of the Americans' other spells and potions for their own use, but the British feared it, citing much of it as Dark Arts and discounting the potentially valuable branches of magic that the Americans were using as well." He takes a swig of butterbeer, rests his elbows on the table. "The result was a war between wizarding France and Britain that resolved little. The French took away from America a few good spells and potions, but their failed attempts to continue to study necromancy led to the accidental creation of Inferi—the only American-based magic that filtered into British society at all.

"Britain and France aren't foes on every front," he says next. "From what you've learned about their economic connections, you already know this. But when it comes to Dark Magic, the French are unlikely to heed any British fears—whenever the British meddle in French borderline Dark affairs, it's almost like by focusing on potential Dark repercussions, we draw attention away from more positive efforts and turn what could have been good magic into bad.

Lily nods, absorbing this. "Like the boy who cried wolf," she murmurs, more to herself than to Brinn. "Now that the Dark magic we're calling out really is something of concern, the French might not believe that it's as serious as we say it is."

"Right," says Brinn. "Our goal over the next two days will be to convince the French ministry that You-Know-Who's intentions _are_ hostile, that this war _could_ become a global terrorism scheme if the Death Eaters aren't stopped early on."

At this point, the lost tourism opportunity doesn't feel to Lily like such a waste of time anymore. Furrowing her brows, she asks him, "And how do we do that?"

He reaches by their feet and resurfaces with his sleek black briefcase. Sliding both their mugs of butterbeer to the side, he pops it open on the tabletop to reveal stacks upon stacks of papers, some of them written in prose, some of them cramming as many statistics onto the page as possible. "Facts, Evans, by showing them the facts."

Lily's supposed to shadow and not speak at the conference, but even so, Brinn's determined that she learn all she can about the issues to be discussed before the sessions begin. She has to hand it to him: he takes her internship more seriously than most in his position probably would. Then again, by educating her, he's taking a small step to educate Britain's youth about the harsh realities of this war—and she begins to realize as she leafs through Brinn's preparations just how little any of her peers know; just how shielded from the cold, hard truth all of Hogwarts's students really are.

The most they hear about at Hogwarts are the deaths and disappearances featured in the Daily Prophet, some of them those of classmates' families, most of them those of total strangers. Most days, Lily skims the front page at breakfast and leaves it at that—each headline is just another casualty in a war apart from her world, one which she doesn't support but which never seems to otherwise interfere with her life. No. The Prophet doesn't report everything, and this is a full-on collision of stats and stories and pictures and pain with three hours of her evening, and if it teaches her anything, it's that this war sure as hell is something to get upset about, something from which no one is going to be sheltered for long, not Hogwarts and not even France.

This conference is their shot. This conference could be their only shot.

By the time Brinn locks up the briefcase, she's rubbed her eyes red in fatigue; the research has sapped her of all the energy she had. "You did good work tonight, Lily," Brinn tells her—he's still straightforward in manner, but it's the first time he's ever used her first name and the first time tonight that he's allowed himself a shadow of a smile.

"Not like it matters how much I know," she mutters, maybe out of modesty, maybe because she doesn't think a soul in the wizarding world cares in the slightest what a silly little girl like her thinks about something as big as war.

"Hey," says Brinn sharply, and she bashfully looks him in the eye. "What you learn from me matters. In a short couple of years, the fate of wizarding Britain is going to be in the hands of you and your peers, and it starts with this internship—it starts with you. Knowledge is power, and your opinion does count, more now than ever."

She says nothing. Brinn prompts, "You-Know-Who isn't just a crackpot on the loose; he has supporters, an army of them, and do you know where they come from?"

"Purebloods," Lily says quietly.

"Not just any purebloods—the old blood families only. It wasn't long ago that blood purity determined one's social class in the wizarding world, but times are changing, and the people who used to rule our world with their family names are getting scared now that they're expected to learn from their education and work to get money and respect. You-Know-Who plays on that, makes them believe that he'll spare them when he's in power, that _they'll_ be back in power by association," he explains.

Again, Lily doesn't answer, so he continues, "The Death Eaters and their supporters are a tiny, tiny minority in Britain, let alone the rest of Europe, and most of them are either washed-up wizards past their prime or their brainwashed children. Our Aurors are doing what they can to fight back, but no one knows enough to make an impact, and Crouch's new policy—kill first and don't ask questions—isn't helping matters. What the war needs, sadly enough, is young blood and a catalyst for political change. Before long, that's where today's students will step in. The more you know before you're thrust into the thick of it, the better."

It's like she and James were talking about last month—this war is going to destroy the lives of innocents for the sake of old blood politics until their generation steps in. Enough is enough, and it's all too overwhelming, but what more is there to do than to do what she can to fight back? Isn't that what Gryffindors are for? "Okay," she says simply, because she can't find any more words to say about it tonight. "Okay."

xx

**December 17th**

Helene's Manor has more than enough guest rooms to house all of them, but with his mother's backing, James insists upon assigning roommates every night, for the sake of unity, he tells them. Remus supposes he's right, that they're here to reconnect and it's fitting that all hours be spent with one another to that end—but that doesn't mean he finds rooming with Sirius on the first night any less awkward.

He's lying in one bed, and Sirius is lying in the spare one that Mrs. Potter magicked into the room, and he starts talking. He's not sure whether Sirius is still awake, less sure that he wants him to be. "I'm sorry for not telling you about Belby sooner," he says into the black. Remus is drowning beneath an overlay of Egyptian cotton sheets, a sheet of sweat thickening on his skin by the minute; it's winter, but the Potters keep the manor's bedrooms toasty warm. "I just… I didn't want to be judged, I guess. I didn't have a lot of confidence in my decision when I agreed to it, and the last thing I wanted was any of you trying to talk me out of it or make me doubt myself even more, because that's all that talking to you probably would have accomplished."

He's a little startled when he hears Sirius's sheets rustling, then feels a pressure on the mattress behind him. On second thought, Remus should have known that Sirius hadn't fallen asleep—he hadn't yet started to hear Sirius's usual snores. As it's almost pitch-dark in the room, he can make out nothing more than the blurry outline of his mate's face when he rolls over, peering out from underneath the sheets. "Hi," Remus says, maybe a little stupidly.

"Hi," Sirius says back, but the night and blackness and uncertainty swallow up the word, so that a moment later, Remus isn't sure whether he spoke at all. He lies there, gravity smashing half his face against the pillows so that the top of his cheek is forced halfway into his eye, and he studies Sirius as his figure gets clearer and clearer in Remus's nighttime vision—reclining on the covers, cheek propped up in one hand, inky gaze staring right back.

The dim thought occurs to Remus that this is not normal friendship behavior—that he and Sirius stopped following normal friendship behavior conventions a long, long time ago—but it's late, and he's exhausted (with both the night and this fight), and he casts the thought aside.

The Marauders are far from normal friends, after all.

"I'm sorry, too," says Sirius, and unjustly, overwhelmingly, it comes across to Remus like undue forgiveness. "Hey—tell me about the recipe for Belby's potion."

"You're serious?" whispers Remus with a frown.

Sirius doesn't answer, just crawls underneath the blankets, fumbles blindly for Remus's hand. Finds it, after a few failed tries. Remus gapes. "I'm listening, aren't I?"

He holds on tight to Sirius's hand, swallows with effort, closes and opens his eyes—starts to talk.

This is intimate, Remus realizes, a pit opening up in his stomach. It's intimate, and he's missed having intimacy with Sirius.

xx

**December 18th**

Mary talks a lot, and that's why she and Marlene have always gotten along, because Marlene is one for talking, too. Forget that you're a bastard child and that you and your stepfather have been lying all along; forget that you've allowed perhaps the most unhinged person you've ever met to use you as his shag buddy; forget, forget, _forget_, and bury yourself in idle chatter and hashing out somebody else's problems.

Mary used to be there for that, but then Mary got distant and Lily needed Marlene more, and now she's alone in a foreign bedroom with Mary and can't think of a single thing to say to her except _I missed you_.

"I missed you."

Well, there goes her discretion.

"I missed you, too," says Mary blearily, rolling over to face Marlene's bed. Her hair is black tonight—it was black earlier, anyway; Marlene can hardly see a thing now—and though she wouldn't on her life admit it, Marlene is glad to see it, so to speak. "I lost you, I lost Reg…"

"I know," says Marlene, trailing off. "I'm _really_ sorry."

"It's all right. Gilderoy and I had a couple of intense heart-to-hearts about you," Mary says, laughing.

"Oh, Merlin."

Mary assures her, "He's not that bad when you get to know him, I promise." After a pause, she adds, "I may have had, like, a couple weird moments with Patil, too."

"Paul Patil?" says Marlene. "Am I hearing this right?"

Grinning, Mary says, "Yeah, if you can believe that. I dunno, Carol Davies asked me to attempt to work with him in class once, and it didn't go well."

"As expected," mutters Marlene with a smile.

"But forget about me," says Mary—that one comes as a surprise. "Did you _see_ the way Pete and Em were all over each other on the train yesterday? They keep saying they're just friends, but if they try and say that _that_ didn't mean anything…"

And they talk about boys—not Marlene's sex life, not Mary's parents—about boys, and Marlene wonders if Mary's the one who's needed her more all along.

xx

**January 20th**

James Potter is an arrogant fifth year with incoming hormones and a sense of entitlement, and Dana Madley can't seem to stop throwing herself at him.

Gryffindor has Charms with the Ravenclaws this year, and she catches up with the Marauders after class, makes a couple jokes about how this class is an awfully funny place to find her Prince Charming and does he want to take a little walk with her in the direction of the nearest broom closet? Snickering with Peter and Sirius and avoiding Remus's eyes, James assents, and they flirt and make some small talk as they cavort down the corridors—not like it'll matter once they lock the nearest door behind them, he thinks with a smirk.

"Found one!" says Madley with delight, flinging open the closet door and tugging him by the fingertips inside. She locks them in and says a little _Muffliato_, and there's a split second in which James should be full to the brim with anticipation of what he knows will come next—but everyone at Hogwarts knows who popularized _Muffliato_, and now all he can see is Severus Snape's face swimming before his mind's eye in all its pallid-skinned, greasy-haired glory.

When James recoils a little at the thought of dear old Snivellus, Madley, of course, takes his reaction the entirely wrong way. "Is something wrong, Potter?" she asks, insecure but sticky sweet.

"No, forget it," he tells her, locking their fingers together and grinning broadly; she sways in his grip for a moment before tilting up her head and kissing him rapturously, her tongue in his mouth before a second has passed.

It's the first time James has ever kissed a girl, believe it or not, and he can't tell whether Madley's persistent giggle means that his inexperience is showing or that she's simply enjoying herself. Ah, well—not like he wants to ruin this by asking. He's intoxicated, and she's his practice dummy, an overeager map of the female body at his disposal.

He's feeling her up, and he ought to be reveling in this, but Madley made him think about Snivellus, and thinking about Snivellus naturally leads to thinking about Evans.

He never used to give a lot of thought to Lily Evans, at least not before people started talking about Snivellus and Death Eaters and Mary got inspired to start up that rumor that Evans was in on it, too. She's unremarkable, Evans, smart enough and quiet enough and loyal enough to a loser like Snivellus that she's always passed beneath James's radar—but now he's snogging Dana Madley while he's thinking about goddamn Lily Evans, first time in his life she's ever really crossed his mind, and it's almost enough to make him pull away from Madley again, though not quite.

Maybe he's crazy, maybe it's Madley's tongue in his gums talking, but now that he thinks about it, Evans isn't all that bad looking.

And if that weren't crazy enough, James's next thought is a real keeper: Evans probably can't snog like Madley and definitely wouldn't be as willing to attempt it, but if she ever were to kiss him, it would make a hell of an impact on him. If she ever _were_ to kiss him, it would mean that he'd done more to earn it than shoot her a wink or two in Charms class, and it would mean that somebody with standards who mattered to the world believed that he mattered, too.

Maybe it's a glimmer of the person he has the potential to become—but first, James is more concerned with several things that he realizes in quick succession: that he's actually thinking about _Evans_ as he snogs another girl, that the combination of thinking about Evans and snogging a girl is getting him a little overexcited in his nether regions, and that Dana Madley is undoing his robes at lightning speed.

He shoves her away and jumps backward with such force that his head collides with the ceiling. "Look, Madley, you are… _really_ sexy, and I'm _so_ sorry"—James would bet anything that Madley has no idea just how sorry he is to pass up an opportunity like this—"but I have to go. I'll see you around?"

He fumbles to retie his robes and summons all the willpower he has in the world to ignore her coos of, "Oh, baby, it's perfectly normal to be nervous." James is half tempted to give in, he really is, but Madley is only a practice dummy to him, and she's not half as intoxicating now as she was when they first came into this closet—he's starting to think he wants (_if you can believe this_) more.

Shamelessly, James flees the scene, even though his tie is askew and his hair is even more mussed than when he ruffles it up intentionally, though he ducks into the nearest men's room to collect himself before returning to his dormitory—he does still have _some_ dignity left, after all. Upon his return, his mates greet him with raised eyebrows and expectations alike. "That was your first time, right?" says Sirius.

"What makes you say that?" asks James. He'd managed to suppress most of his panic, but it comes back now as he hastily gives himself a once-over, wondering what unkempt detail of his appearance gave Sirius _that_ impression.

On the contrary, though, Sirius just sighs and says, "I dunno, mate, you just look the same way I felt the first time I shagged McKinnon."

Distantly, it registers that Sirius shouldn't talk about his first time like that, especially since it was with one of his best mates. "What do I look like?"

His grin fading promptly, Sirius pauses, then says, "Like your whole world just got a lot more complicated."

James takes a moment to let this sink in. "It wasn't my first," he says dully after a moment. "I mean, I haven't had my first yet—we didn't do it; I've never… done… it."

"As it should be, considering the laws in our world against underage intercourse," says Remus, not missing a beat.

Sirius teases Remus about his use the word _intercourse_; James ignores them both. "I think I'm going to ask out Evans," he decides aloud—on the spot, just like that.

"Lily Evans? Snivellus's mate?" asks Peter, frowning.

Sirius cautions, "You won't have a chance in hell, mate."

Maybe he's bonkers, but he doesn't laugh it off, doesn't even attempt to talk himself out of it. "Yeah, Lily Evans," he echoes belatedly. "I'm going to ask her out, and I'm going to let her reject me."

Everything that will come after the inevitable rejection—that's the part he's looking forward to the most.

xx

**December 20th**

"I know Dana Madley," says James, a slight blush rising in his cheeks, "and if I were you, I wouldn't trust her with Frank."

Alice sighs. All he's done is vocalize the mantra that's been running through her mind these last few weeks, but now that the words are out, she can't bring herself to be upset for a second longer.

"It is what it is," she answers, "and all I can do is hope that Frank comes to his senses."

xx

**December 23rd**

James has the Gryffindor Quidditch team over to practice, and that's how Mary ends up sitting in the snow with Fabian Prewett, talking about the upperclassman power struggles and politics.

"Gid wasn't happy about it, but Sirius and Eddie and, obviously, Meghan were all for it; he was outnumbered. So we've been sneaking Ryan to practice, and Meg's played Keeper and James Seeker ever since," explains Fabian, blasé.

"So the Hufflepuffs don't get wind of the plan?" Mary asks.

He nods, yawning. "To get away, Ryan will make up some shit about needing tutoring in Transfiguration—from what I understand, he could use it, poor bloke—and James smuggles him out with his Invisibility Cloak. Then they'll put up guards around the Pitch so nobody will find out, and I'm sidelined every practice."

"What do you think of it?"

"Of what?"

"You know, like, sitting out this game because of James's plan. It's your last year to play; you can't be happy about it," says Mary, shrugging.

Fabian smirks. "Oh, I don't mind it, really. Gid's a bastard about some things, but as much as he usually doesn't trust me, he feels bad about this—if only because he doesn't like taking unnecessary risks, anyway. I like it, in some ways—Gid lets me help out with coaching, since I've got nothing better to do these days."

Mary can just see it: Fabian reclining in the stands and barking out directions to the disgruntled team. He always has been a smartarse, Fabian, and she bets that his new position on the team suits him perfectly. Honestly, Mary never used to much care for the Prewett twins: their older sister, Molly, seemed all right, but Gideon was too uptight for her, Fabian too full of himself.

These days, Fabian's been growing on her. At least he's up front and knows what he wants.

"Gid doesn't want word getting out, but you lot all would have found out anyway since we're practicing here. Just don't be thick about it," Fabian advises now, his eyes firmly rooted to the practicing team.

"Why don't you stand up to him more?" says Mary quietly. Fabian glances at her with a frown. "Gideon? You don't let anybody mess with you, mostly, but, like, I see the way he treats Meadowes and…"

Fabian chuckles low in his throat. "The thing you have to understand is—that inseparable bond people believe is between all twins? Gid and I never had that. He's always been all caught up in his morals and deciding what's black and what's white, and I'm…" He shakes his head, takes a swig of butterbeer, and says, "I'm just along for the ride, and that's never been good enough for him, you know? I dunno, maybe that makes both of us bastards, but that's the way it is."

"So why Meadowes, then? You can't possibly have thought you could get away with getting involved with her and still stay out of Gideon's politics," Mary prompts.

He tosses his head back and says, "She's smart and capable and has a good head on her shoulders, and she doesn't let the other Slytherins get in her way with their crap about how she ought to join up with the Death Eaters. She breaks the rules on her side; I break mine. If Gid has a problem with that, so be it."

"Bet Gideon wasn't happy when she made Head Girl."

"He wasn't," Fabian confirms. "Gid's problem is that he's so caught up in supporting the right thing that he loses sight of what's right and what's wrong. Dorcas might be a Slytherin, but she's got more balls than he's ever had; he just can't see it."

Because old habits die hard, Mary can't help herself: "Rumor has it that she's going to recommend Benjy Fenwick and Alice Abbott for next year's Heads; you know anything about that?"

Fabian lets out a breath and leans back. "It's hard to say," he answers finally. "She doesn't like to talk about it—says she doesn't want to fuel the fire, you know? But even if she does put in a good word for them, it's hard to say whether it'll have much influence on the decision. Shacklebolt wants Longbottom for Head Boy and either Clearwater or Davies for Head Girl, and he has as much of a say as Dorcas does—and who knows whether it'll matter to Dumbledore, anyway? Shacklebolt as Head Boy wasn't a surprise, but Head Girl was supposed to go to Jones or Macmillan this year; Dorcas getting chosen shocked everybody."

"I remember," Mary mutters, and she does: it was all anybody could talk about on the Hogwarts Express ride to the castle this year. "What do you think?"

"Me?" His eyes light up—it reminds her of the way Sirius looks whenever he's in a mischievous mood. "Maybe I'm nuts, but my money's on Clearwater or Abbott for Head Girl with James as Head Boy."

"_James_?" Her head whips around to face the Quidditch playing ground, and she pinpoints her gaze on James. "James _Potter_? Are you serious?"

Fabian shrugs, holding up his hands. "Hey, he's got the charisma, the respect of the student body, the leadership skills… all he'd need would be a sensible Head Girl to keep him in line."

"James Potter, Head Boy. Right," scoffs Mary, shaking her head in combined amusement and disbelief. "As if."

xx

**December 11th**

A Memory Potion only takes about a day to make, and Brinn sends her back to her hotel room to brew it, giving her the rest of the day off from the conference. "Don't worry about what you'll miss in the meantime," he instructs her. "You-Know-Who is the last item on the list; if you finish this by morning tomorrow, you'll have it done in plenty of time to catch negotiations about the war."

"After I've taken the potion, how do I control what I learn from it?" asks Lily, scribbling down the last of what she remembers about Memory Potions. She never would have expected her Potions abilities to come in handy at a time like this, but she can't say she's complaining.

"Toss a couple of French-English dictionaries and francophone novels into the cauldron two hours before you drink the potion; that should do it, I reckon," Brinn answers, turning to leave.

"Lord Brinn," she calls after him, and he stops. "Where does the 'lord' in your name come from, anyway?"

Shrugging, he says, "It's a Muggle courtesy title. My father was a British earl." And he departs.

Brewing the potion entails three hours of adding ingredients, two hours of stirring, and a minimum of fifteen hours of simmering before it's ready to be drunk; by the time Lily is halfway through stirring—twice counterclockwise, three times clockwise, pause twelve seconds, repeat—she's thoroughly homesick for Hogwarts. She can hardly believe it, but she misses James, Marlene, _everyone_ from Gryffindor. Like it or not, she doesn't really have a family anymore, not when her cousins can't know about magic and her sister wants nothing to do with witchcraft. That's where her roommates have come in for the last few months, and despite all their troubles and feuds, she appreciates them more and more by the day.

Some days, she still can't quite get her head around the idea that the Gryffindors have become her closest friends. It wasn't all that long ago that Severus was her only mate in the world, that Emmeline was the closest thing she had to an ally in her dormitory, that James Potter was a stranger whose antics she'd laugh off or shout about sometimes and nothing more. James, his mates, the girls—they're Lily's everything now. It scares her a little that she's come to trust them, and sometimes she doubts whether her friendships are real, but there it is.

What happened to them in the last couple of months? Apart from the Marauders' short-lived falling out after the incident with Severus last year and Emmeline's growing distance from the group, the sixth year Gryffindors always seemed so close-knit, bearers of an impenetrable bond. When she first moved in with Marlene last summer and started getting to know the Gryffindors more intimately, their lives seemed so intertwined, their friendships solid. They were _happy _together—at least, they made her believe they were—and she'd doubted whether she could ever fully break into their circle of trust.

And now… Remus and Sirius aren't on speaking terms; half the time none of the Marauders are, even. Sirius and Marlene's relationship is ten times more complex and dysfunctional than it ever before appeared; Mary is a wreck instead of the best friend she once was to Marlene; Emmeline somehow wound up in messy romantic entanglements with Sirius _and_ with Peter; and Alice, the dependable prefect to whom everyone once turned for guidance and unconditional friendship (at least, everyone save Lily), is more out of the loop than ever in her determination to avoid drama. It's almost as though her intrusion on the eight Gryffindors' friendship coincided perfect with its dissolution.

She thinks back to what Marlene told her that first night staying with the McKinnons last summer. _We've got secrets, all right? Big ones._ Was one of those secrets all along that the group is nowhere near as close as it seems from an outside perspective?

Much as she misses her newfound friends, in a way, Lily's glad to be on her own here in France. It's all so inexplicably personal—the sights of the city, the things she's learned from Brinn in her time here—and she doesn't know if it's something she can share with her Hogwarts world.

She doesn't know if she can go back to those petty misunderstandings after facing this weekend the enormity of the war.

When Brinn checks in on her progress after the conference has convened for the day, much later into the night than she'd expected, it's plain to see that he can tell there's something wrong. "Evans, if the reports you read up on yesterday are still getting you down, I can't tell you sincerely that international politics is a field you should pursue long-term," he says with a sigh after she answers his knock at her door.

"No, it's not that. It's stupid; it's nothing," she replies, because compared to the reasons she's here this weekend, this is true.

He accepts this—Brinn doesn't seem the type to want to get involved in anyone's personal affairs, anyway. "Forget about it, then, and quickly," he advises. "Is the potion nearly complete?"

"It just has to simmer until tomorrow morning."

"Excellent," he declares, nodding in approval. "Its effects will last for about forty-eight hours, allotting you more than enough time in which to fully understand the French spoken at the conference tomorrow."

"Sounds good," says Lily. "Thanks for your help, Lord Brinn."

He nods to her, then proposes, "So what do you say to a bit of sightseeing before you turn in for the night?"

"But you already took me out last night," she says slowly, not understanding.

"Around wizarding France, yes," Brinn acknowledges, "but don't try to tell me that you'd be willing to come to Paris and not even see the Eiffel Tower."

She glances at the black sky out the window of her hotel room, then at her wristwatch—it's nearly midnight. "They take groups up this late at night?"

"Evans, we're wizards."

Laughing a little, Lily says, "I'm not supposed to use magic outside the castle."

"Did I ask you to cast the spells?" counters Brinn, extending his forearm.

She takes it, squeezes hard through a moment of Side-Along-Apparition—and they're at the base of the Eiffel Tower, just like that. "It's huge," is the first thing that comes out of Lily's mouth. "I mean, I know logically that it's supposed to be huge, but it's just… _huge_."

The Tower looms over them, an imposing structure of winding steel built for the gods, that much more impressive illuminated against the night. As close to it as they are, Lily can't even see the point at the top from here. "So are we just going to Apparate to the top, or…?"

"Half the experience is in the lift up, Evans," says Brinn with a grin more boyish than she'd expect from him. "What do you say?"

"Well, if it slims out the chances we wind up Splinched a few meters below the top floor, I'm not complaining," Lily jokes, running off after him as they dash to the entrance to the elevator.

Though Brinn holds his wand hand steady, it's still a rickety ride up. They stop on the Tower's second floor to change lifts; Lily's tempted to rush to the balcony and stare, but Brinn tells her to wait till they're all the way at the top, and she takes the advice with only a little hesitation. And then she's _there_, gazing out at the city through crisscrossed wire, at once bite-sized and sprawling beneath her, a sea of monuments and a network of lights.

"It's beautiful," she tells him breathlessly, and she can't see his reaction, but she feels his rumbling laughter suspended on the wintry Parisian air.

Fleetingly—so much so that she hardly recognizes it before it's gone—she wishes that Brinn were gone and James were here instead.

xx

**December 24th**

It's Christmas Eve, and that's probably why Marlene caves.

He tells her to meet him in one of the parlors at eleven o'clock that night, or maybe she tells him—does it matter? He shows up, and she shows up, and it's eleven o'clock, and they're standing there, and then he kisses her.

Flashback. It's half past nine, and they're exchanging gifts in the Potters' kitchen—Alice's idea, because kitchens are homey and they're all in dire need of a dose of sentimentality this holiday season. They would have waited until tomorrow for this, but Mary cites some Muggle tradition or other of opening one present each the night before Christmas, and now, here they are.

The trades are obvious: Lily and James, Peter and Emmeline, Remus and Sirius, Mary and Marlene. Alice, the patient odd one out, opens her gift from Remus. And Marlene's walking out and hooking in the earrings Mary got her when she feels a small parcel drop into her robe pocket.

She glances to her right: Sirius. For a split second, everything stops for her. Back in her room, once Mary's asleep, she pulls it out and unwraps it to find there a note and a heart-shaped charm—sterling silver, but hey, the boy's been thrown out of his home with no money; it's not like she could have expected more.

Flash back forward to eleven o'clock, kissing in the parlor. She doesn't push away but doesn't reciprocate, either, and Sirius pulls back and brushes hair away from her face, one arm encircling her waist. "I think we should have a real go at it," he whispers, foreheads touching.

"What?" she mumbles, staying there with him but looking away.

"Being together," he says with a genuine smile. "You and me. No more secrecy, no more sex—unless you want to keep that part. Whatever you want, Marlene."

Her head spins. "And why the hell should I trust you this time?" Marlene demands.

He doesn't answer for a long while, and she's already started to sigh and walk out by the time he presses his lips to her cheek. "This time, I think I love you," Sirius says awkwardly—emotions have never been his strongest suit. "I reckon it's up to you to decide whether that's enough. Just think it over," he tells her, and then he's gone and it's down to just Marlene.

xx

**December 12th**

"You can't be serious," Lily says, quiet and shell-shocked, in rapid French.

Brinn tells her warily, voice low, "Evans, be careful—"

She disregards him, shock turning to rage by the instant. "You can't possibly be serious! Whatever the hell your differences are with Britain, can't you get over it for the _two seconds_ it would take you to realize that You-Know-Who is a major, _international_ threat to wizardkind?"

There are titters within the French council, their minister saying in exasperated tones, "Again, our Ministry of Magic has judged unanimously that Voldemort is not at this time immediately relevant to the health of the French nation, nor to that of the International Confederation of Wizards—"

"I don't give a damn what your ministry thinks; you have a chance to alter the course of history here, and you're too afraid of getting on You-Know-Who's bad side to do anything about it!" Lily erupts, rising. She'd bet anything that Brinn's regretting letting her take that Memory Potion to improve her French skills for this meeting. "Didn't any of you pay a bit of attention to Gellert Grindelwald's reign of terror in the 1940s? The _only_ reason that he stopped was British involvement—how many more of your country's wizards do you think would be dead by now if it weren't for Dumbledore defeating him? And now you can't even be bothered to give us the same courtesy now that you're out of the line of fire! It's despicable!"

"That's _enough_, Evans," says Brinn sharply, eyes blazing. "You're only an intern; you have no say here. Sit _down_," he implores her, and she complies, if only because she doesn't want to hear the objections of the French Ministry.

They leave in a flurry of apologies and formalities, and Brinn rounds on her the minute they Disapparate from the courthouse. "Evans, in all likelihood, you just blew whatever shot we had of French support for this war, dammit!" he hollers, losing his composure for the first time since she's met him.

"Like we ever had a shot with them to begin with; their mind were set from the start," she retorts sullenly.

"If you honestly believe you can go into international relations with an attitude like _that_—"

"Brinn, much as I hate to be rude, _that_ is exactly why I belong in the profession," says Lily shortly. "If the best anyone has done so far is that complete political bullshit, the sooner I join the Department of International Magical Cooperation, the better."

They're plunging headfirst into a war, and France is willing to watch them fall to the wrong side.

xx

**December 25th**

"Can we talk, Lily?"

She glances up, folding her hands in her lap. It's James—of course it's James—jerking his head toward the nearest doorway and watching her with a look of concern. At Lily's nod, he smiles halfheartedly and leads her out of the parlor, walking with her through the winding halls of the manor.

The last time she was here, she felt so misplaced in his home, his presence. Now, James is one of the most comforting things in her life.

"Whatever's wrong, you can just tell me, you know that," he starts uneasily, eyeing her.

She breathes out, glances at the ceiling. "Is it that obvious?"

"Painfully, really, but that could just be because I pay a disproportionate amount of attention to you," James admits, and his smile seems more genuine now when she chances a look at him. "Ever since you got back from France, you've been…"

"Yeah. Yeah, I know," she sighs. "It's nothing, it's just—the French Ministry—they're refusing to join forces to stop You-Know-Who."

James breathes out, scratching the back of his neck. "It's not nothing. That's…"

"Yeah." Pause. "Merry Christmas."

They've reached the end of the corridor, a dead end opening into a window that spans ceiling to floor. Without a whit of attention to her dignity, she presses her hands to the glass and stares out at the grounds from which it separates her—hilly and covered in snow, the picture of a winter wonderland. "Well, this is a bit awkward," says James abruptly.

"Why, what for?" asks Lily, glancing back at him.

"I'd had this whole romantic statement planned out that I swore to myself I'd tell you by Christmas, only now the fate of wizarding Britain is apparently looking a lot bleaker, and I feel like the unluckiest bloke in the country to have been stuck with this rubbish timing," he says, sheepish but smiling.

Something stops clicking in Lily's mind, and she echoes, "Romantic statement?"

He shrugs. "It wouldn't matter anyway; I can't think what a word of it was now," James tells her with a little laugh.

And in a minute, Lily won't be able to remember what the hell is happening now, but one of them is walking forward and then James is touching one hesitant hand to her cheek and, Merlin, they're _kissing_, and then it's over and she's just had her first kiss with, of all people, James Potter.

And Lily can't think, but she seems to be able to move, so she starts smiling, and James starts smiling back, and it really feels wonderful to be an idiot smiling on a picturesque Christmas morning.

xx

**December 17th**

Emmeline Vance is not a perfect person. Emmeline Vance can hold a grudge like no other, and she's currently harboring a hell of one against Sirius Black.

After all, so far as she's concerned, he's the one who killed her parents.

xx

**END OF PART THREE**


	25. February 12th: Sirius Black

**Previously in the Darklyverse:** France refused to intervene in the Death Eaters' growing reign of terror (CH24), Marlene caught wind of Dumbledore's underground anti-Voldemort organization (CH12), Emmeline blamed Sirius for her parents' deaths (CH24), and James and Sirius hatched a plan for the upcoming Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff game (CH21).

**Disclaimer:** OC Mildred LeProut is co-owned by me, Wendy Brune, and StoryGirl02.

xx

**February 12****th****: Sirius Black**

"To nobody's surprise, Slytherin creamed Ravenclaw in last month's game, two-hundred-twenty to twenty, so Hufflepuff will be looking to score two hundred points today to pull ahead of Slytherin and at least one-hundred-fifty more than us to top this season's rankings. If we catch the Snitch, we've got nothing to worry about, but if we _don't_, we'd better have already scored more goals than Hufflepuff," barks Gideon. Sirius is waiting for the start of the match alongside the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team in the locker room as Gideon carries on, still clearly unsatisfied with the strategy for today's game.

Gideon continues shouting directions: "Hufflepuff's Chasers are the strongest they have been in years, and even if Meghan Keeping throws them off, we're still going to have a time of it trying to stay ahead in the scoring. Potter, I want you to catch the Snitch as fast as possible, all right? I swear to God, no funny business with Chasing and Seeking both in this game—it was your idea to switch positions, and we are _depending_ on you to follow that through today. Black, Moon, keep the Bludgers well away from Potter, all right? Try and hit Hufflepuff's Chasers, help keep us in possession of the Quaffle—but _no_ fouls, or else they _will_ score penalties and this whole charade will backfire. The rest of you—I hope you know what you're doing." They don't, but neither will Hufflepuff when they realize that Gryffindor has changed around half its lineup for today's game—at least, that's the assumption to which they've pinned their hopes today.

He's cut off by the commentator as she begins to introduce the teams. "That's our cue," says Meghan—for all the pressure that they've placed on her to hold her own against Hufflepuff's Chasers, she's looking remarkably confident, even excited—and Sirius swings his leg over his broomstick and hurtles out onto the field.

"And first come the Gryffindors, Captained by Chaser Gideon Prewett! The Gryffindors have changed their lineup for this game, replacing Keeper Fabian Prewett with Meghan McCormack, the team's usual Seeker who was injured and unable to play against Slytherin last November. Like in that game, Chaser James Potter as taken over her Seeking post, and reserve Chaser Ryan Robins has filled his place, in turn. Rumor has it that this unexpected and radical change is a tactic to throw off Hufflepuff's talented Chasers—question is, will the risk pay off? Here they come, led by Captain and Chaser Elisabeth Clearwater. Slytherin only narrowly defeated Hufflepuff in last year's Quidditch Cup, and Hufflepuff's sudden ascension was largely credited to Clearwater's admission onto the team. This year, Clearwater was selected for Hufflepuff's Captaincy over seventh years Kirley McCormack and Hestia Jones, and the Hufflepuffs were favorites for this year's Cup until their surprising loss to Ravenclaw in the second game of the season. Compensating for it will be a Herculean task—we'll find out today whether Clearwater's team is up to the challenge."

Madam Hooch directs the Captains to shake hands, and Sirius watches as Gideon grips Elisabeth's fingers with a curt, closed-lipped nod. The numbers are so far in Gryffindor's favor this season, but no one on Sirius's team is naïve enough to underestimate the Hufflepuff team, and the pressure is on to see whether his and James's plan will pay off.

Sure enough, Hufflepuff is first in possession as Hestia Jones snatches up the Quaffle and heads straight for the goalposts. Sirius tears after the nearest Bludger and beats it in her direction, half spaced out, half following the commentary: Gryffindor saves. Gryffindor saves. Hufflepuff scores…

"…And Prewett has called a time-out as Kirley McCormack scores another goal, bringing the game's total to sixty points to forty for Hufflepuff—not bad against this team of Chasers but still a concern for the Gryffindor team in the event that Hufflepuff catches the Snitch." By the time Sirius reaches the ground, Gideon is already ranting to half the team in a harsh whisper, and Sirius braces himself for the talking-to that's sure to come.

"And _you_ two!" Gideon erupts as James and Sirius approach the huddle. "Bet you're not feeling so confident about your little ploy now, are you? Meghan's good, but how could you expect her to hold her own against Clearwater's team on _no_ Keeping experience? Scare tactics don't _work_ against the Hufflepuffs, they're too good—"

"Is there a point to this tirade?" James interrupts lazily. "Because if you don't mind wrapping this up, I've got a Snitch to catch."

Gideon's eyes flash, but he otherwise doesn't address James's insolence, to Sirius's relief. "Not until we get ahead of Hufflepuff you don't," he dictates. "_Do not_ let Hufflepuff get possession of the Quaffle. We'll score three more goals, then you'll do your bloody best to end this game before we fall behind again, all right? If you see the Snitch and there's _any_ chance that Hufflepuff might catch it, you put your energy into protecting it from capture, not racing for it. Until we're in the lead, we can't afford that risk."

They disband and ascend back into the air. Given Gideon' adamancy against giving Hufflepuff a single penalty today, there's not much Sirius can do to keep his team in possession—Hufflepuff is too good for most legal Beating stunts to work against them. So he drifts away from the center of the pitch, whacking the occasional Bludger but otherwise ignoring the action of the game entirely.

He should have known that he'd be off his game today. Quidditch used to be Sirius's preferred catharsis, the best way for him to take out his frustration against his family, his lot in life, the war. Now, he has half a mind to give up on this game entirely. What does it matter, honestly, whether Gryffindor edges out Hufflepuff for the Quidditch Cup? Winning a trophy isn't going to coax his brother away from the Death Eaters any more than whacking a Beater's bat will avenge any of the deaths or disappearances of the last decade. The harder Sirius has practiced for the last two months, the more helpless he's felt in the grander scheme of things.

But that's all about to change, isn't it?

Gryffindor scores.

If Regulus Black is old enough at fifteen to join the outskirts of his precious Dark Lord's regime, then surely Sirius is within reason at seventeen to want to fight back. Never mind that Dumbledore won't allow students into his little secret society or that the wizarding world sees him as little more than a child—from here on out, he's taking matters into his own hands. They all are.

Gryffindor scores again. One more goal, and then James will be free to—

An eruption of cheers and gasps from the crowd interrupts his train of thought, and the commentator declares, "Fenwick catches the Snitch in a sudden turn of events, and Hufflepuff wins, bringing this match's final score to two hundred and ten points to sixty! That leaves Hufflepuff in the lead for the Quidditch Cup, ten points ahead of Gryffindor and twenty ahead of Slytherin. How this will play out in the final two games of the season is anyone's guess…"

Gideon is furious, even more so when Sirius storms out halfway through the post-match team meeting—but frankly, he doesn't want to hear it, especially considering that much of the blame for Gryffindor's loss falls to Gideon's own shoulders as team Captain and a Chaser to boot. Maybe he shouldn't be, but he's caught by surprise when James follows him out of the locker room and catches up to him at the other end of the pitch minutes later. "Padfoot, what were you thinking?" he demands with a hint of exasperation. "You know that Gid's not completely wrong to blame us for this, and walking out on him is just going to make things worse—"

"Dammit, James, this is not about the game!" he roars. He hasn't called James by his first name in over a year, not since the Marauders started using nicknames and roaming the grounds at the full moon every month, so it startles James, no less because of the venom in Sirius's voice. "You think I give a shit about a Quidditch match with everything that's going on? You heard what Lily said, France's refusal to intervene in the war is a huge step backwards for us—more and more people are disappearing, hardly a week passes anymore without someone getting a letter from the Ministry at breakfast—what the hell do we think we're doing, running around cavorting with a werewolf and pulling pranks and worrying ourselves sick over _Quidditch_ when… when…"

"Lower your voice; you're going to expose Moony," says James urgently. The pitch is almost deserted by now, but he's clearly worried that the few lingering stragglers in the stands will overhear him.

"_Remus_," Sirius corrects.

James doesn't push it. "I don't like it any more than you do, Sirius, but what more are we supposed to do? We can't exactly mobilize the student body to act—Marlene says Dumbledore won't let anybody join the opposition until they're out of Hogwarts, she's lucky he even told her about its existence, and it's not like we can run some kind of underground resistance on our own. We've got no resources, no information to go on, _nothing_, as long as we're in school."

Growling, Sirius responds, "Nobody ever did anything noteworthy by sitting on their arses talking about how powerless they were."

"Like that's not exactly what this conversation is about," points out James.

Sirius shoots him a look. "You and Lily are the ones always talking about how the war's not going to end until our generation intervenes; do you honestly believe that that's going to happen if we don't at least _try_ to take action now? The sooner the better—"

"Our generation," says James softly. "You're right, you're exactly—"

"What?"

"Nothing. Listen, I'll—I have to talk to Lily. Do you know where she'd be right now, by any chance?" he asks, eyes alight.

Doubly frustrated with James's insistence on brainstorming with _Lily_ over Sirius, he answers, "She skipped the match to get to the Ministry on time for her internship—don't you belong there, too, now that the game's over?"

"_Shit_, that's right, Gid called that meeting and I forgot—we'll talk more about this later, all right? As soon as I can talk to Lily—do we still have that thing with the girls tomorrow night? We'll do it then, we can use all the heads in on this that we can get, and I'm sure they'll all want to help—"

"Help with _what_?" Sirius demands, but James is already taking off in a run towards the castle, shouting something over his shoulder about explaining it all as soon as he talks to Lily.

He doesn't even have time to growl with irritation before a voice behind him calls out, "You played brilliantly out there today, you know, whether or not the scoreboards reflected it."

Finally, a reminder of something that was going right in his life. "Marlene," he greets her, his lips curling up into a smile that she returns after kissing him swiftly on the lips. "Thanks, but I was rubbish, don't deny it."

"Maybe so, but we're not too far behind Hufflepuff now, and Ravenclaw will be an easier win for us than Slytherin for them," Marlene reasons. "Anyway, it's on J's shoulders that we lost. If he'd been paying closer attention to the Snitch…"

"I reckon he got cocky after we won against Slytherin last fall. It was a long shot, anyway; Hufflepuff's favorites for the Cup this year," says Sirius. It's remarkable the effect Marlene has had on him in the past few weeks, how quickly just the sight of her can cool his rage and calm him down.

As if to prove the point, she asks him, "So what was that about with James?"

"The usual row," he admits, sighing. "I reckon we'll all go mad in the end if we can't find _some_ way to fight back between now and graduation. He seemed to be onto something but insisted on finding Lily before he'd let me in on it."

"You know how he gets," says Marlene bracingly. "Lily does the same thing, putting James ahead of the rest of us all the time… used to, anyway. I feel like she's been distant lately, I dunno…"

They enter the castle, both lost in thought. Breaking the silence, Marlene says after a minute, "You know Valentine's Day is on Monday, right?"

"Shit. That," curses Sirius, much to Marlene's amusement. "I didn't realize it would be that important to you."

"Merlin, Sirius, it's not like I'm going to _Avada Kedavra _you if you don't plan something elaborate," she chuckles. "I just figured, after everything that's happened…"

She doesn't need to explain. Their relationship is complicated at best, recovering from dysfunction at worst—he doesn't blame her for hoping that they can use the holiday to make it up to each other, trite though the occasion may be. "Tell you what," he says. "I've got Muggle Studies at half past two, but after I get out, we can snog for a bit in my dormitory and then sneak down to the kitchens for a late dinner and to talk, all right? The house-elves can probably set us up a candlelit table or something."

"Snogging. Romantic," snickers Marlene, but she ultimately concedes, "That does sound nice, though. Sirius Black, using his words instead of his tongue to woo a girl for once. Can you imagine?"

"Shut it before I change my mind," he teases, bumping shoulders with her playfully.

She pushes back, laughing loudly, and they chase each other up one, two, three stories before the nearest staircase to the fourth floor starts to move. "Bugger," says Marlene to herself, and they set off down the corridor in search of the nearest immobile flight of stairs. "Hey, as long as half our class is at the Ministry for internships for the rest of the day, what do you think we should find Em and Lupe and—_oh_!"

Tripping spectacularly, she tumbles forward and breaks her fall with the heel of her left hand. "_Merlin_, Marlene!" says Sirius, reaching down to lend her a hand up. He can't help but notice that she doesn't seem to be lying flat on the ground; there's nothing but floor beneath her, but it's almost as if something invisible is resting beneath her feet, propping them up. Whatever is there smells horrid, too, like bread and feet and spoiled milk rolled into one.

Wincing a bit, she struggles into a sitting position, rooting through her robe pocket for her wand. "Look at those splinters… _Tergeo. Episkey_," she says, healing her hand instantly. "That'll probably be sore for a few days… Merlin."

"You'll be all right, though?" he asks, some of his concern dissipating at her nod and convincing smile. "Any idea what it was that tripped you? For a second there, it looked like…"

"Like something invisible were lying right _there_?" she finishes the thought for him, indicating the spot where she'd fallen. Sirius nods. "I thought so, too. It reeks, whatever it is… reckon it might be under a Disillusionment Charm?"

He feels around on the floor until his hand hits something solid, then whacks it with his wand while muttering the countercharm. To his shock, the spell reveals the motionless, facedown figure of a girl whom he assumes has been Stunned until he rolls her over, revealing her wide-open eyes. "Somebody put a Full Body-Bind on her," says Sirius. He wonders whether the awful stench is due to spellwork, too, or whether it's her natural scent—glancing at Marlene, he can tell she's thinking the same thing and probably feeling guilty for commenting on it as well.

"_Finite_," Marlene says shakily to reverse the curse. For a moment, the girl just blinks rapidly up at Sirius, hardly stirring; then she looks wildly around her and scrambles to her feet.

"I'm so sorry," is the first thing she says, addressing Marlene. "Was it you who tripped over me? Are you all right?"

Clearly not having expected this reaction, Marlene just gapes for a moment before answering, "I'm fine, thanks. You don't have to—I mean, you have nothing to apologize for; I don't suppose _you_ lay down willingly in the middle of a corridor and put a Disillusionment Charm and a Full Body-Bind Curse on yourself. Who did—how did this happen to you?"

"Oh, I don't know; could have been anyone," the girl replies, sounding so unconcerned that it worries Sirius. He can't seem to shake the feeling that he knows her from somewhere—at the very least, he thinks he recognizes her voice. "This sort of thing seems to happen quite a lot. You get used to it."

"Was it a Slytherin?" says Marlene, unconvinced and sounding angrier by the second. "I swear to Merlin, if it some little bugger giving you shit about being Muggle-born—"

"Oh, no, no, no, nothing like that," she assures them, smiling weakly. "I'm a half-blood, anyway."

"Then why—?" But Marlene cuts herself short, consciously connecting what Sirius does an instant later: the girl doesn't need dirty blood to be an easy target for bullying. In addition to the stench, she's a good fifty pounds overweight, her baggy robes doing little to conceal the pockets of fat that weigh down her torso, and her face somewhat resembles a rat's, even obscured by acne and framed by a greasy, blonde bob cut. If he were a few years younger, Sirius realizes with a sickening jolt, she'd probably be the butt of his own pranks.

He must be mistaken; they can't have met before, Sirius decides, because surely he'd have remembered how she looks in excruciating detail. But there's something about her voice that… unless… "You're the Quidditch commentator, aren't you?" says Sirius, cutting the uncomfortable silence short.

Blushing a bit, she nods. "I'm surprised you made the connection," she admits. "Most people don't; apparently my voice sounds a lot different when it's magnified, and people are paying more attention to the game than to me, so they usually don't recognize me by sight. I'm sorry, I'm rambling—" He tries to tell her it's all right, but she talks over his attempt at an interruption to introduce herself. "At any rate, I'm Mildred, Mildred LeProut, but you can call me Millie. And are you two Sirius Black and Marlene McKinnon?"

In a way, he's grateful for the unexpected recognition—he picked up enough French before he ran away from home to know that _le prout_ translates to _fart_, but he's too taken aback to laugh at her expense. "How did you—?"

"I commentate your games," she reminds Sirius, "and besides, you have quite the reputation around here, between all those pranks you've done and being the first Black in Gryffindor in generations. And I heard that the two of you were together for good, so I just assumed…"

He's a bit unnerved that Millie follows school gossip closely enough to identify them both without ever having properly met, but he tries not to show it. "Well, we should probably be getting back to Gryffindor Tower," says Marlene awkwardly, "unless you're in—?"

It takes Millie a second to catch on. "Oh! No, I'm in Ravenclaw, actually, a Ravenclaw fourth year," she says.

"You're quite good, you know," says Sirius abruptly, garnering strange looks from Millie and Marlene both. "At commentating the games, I mean. All our mates think so."

"Oh!" says Millie. "Er, thank you. If that's all, I'll get going, then… it was nice meeting both of you," she adds, smiling bashfully as she buries her hands in her robe pockets and brushes past them.

For a moment, Sirius and Marlene just stare down the corridor at her retreating figure without a word. "That was awkward, wasn't it?" says Marlene eventually. Sirius just nods, not trusting himself to speak. "Come on, let's get back to the common room…"

It doesn't take him long, however, to forget all about the stench and the shame that embody Millie LeProut. As he and Marlene reach the Gryffindor common room and begin to take the stairs up to the boys' dormitory, Sirius hears Remus call out from an armchair by the hearth, "You might want to think twice before taking Marlene up to the dorm with you, Padfoot. Emmeline's up there waiting for you."

He doubles back down the staircase, Marlene right behind him. "Did she say what she wanted to talk to me about?" he asks. Remus shakes his head, but there's a clenching sensation in Sirius's stomach telling him that he already knows the answer. Peter mentioned this last month, he recalls, something about wanting him and Emmeline to talk about the reasons why everything went wrong between them two years ago. Before now, he'd long accepted that he probably would never understand what prompted Emmeline to give up on her friends, on _him_, and although he should have expected for months now that Peter's interference was bound to drag up the past again, he isn't sure he's ready to face the conversation he knows is about to ensue.

"Wish me luck," he says with a sigh, and he kisses Marlene's cheek before he bounds up the stairs, ignoring her confusion as to what, exactly, she was supposed to wish him luck for.

Sure enough, Emmeline is sitting on Sirius's bed when he enters the room, her legs crossed and hanging over the edge. "Hi, Sirius," she says quietly, and he's relieved to hear that the usual note of bitter spite in her voice is gone today, replaced by a sense of exhaustion and defeat.

"Moony said you wanted to talk to me about something," he prompts, joining her at the foot of his bed.

She laughs, but it's a hollow sound, nothing like the great belly laughs they used to share—that was years ago, though, and Sirius would be crazy to think that he could bring back the old Emmeline in the blink of an eye. "Don't tell me you didn't see this coming," she tells him, and he's relieved that she doesn't push him any harder when he doesn't answer. Then, so softly it's almost imperceptible: "Your cousin killed my parents."

His head pounds; his insides turn to ice. "My—_what_? Your parents are—?"

"It was in fourth year," Emmeline says next, her voice wavering. "Remember when you and your brother got owls from your parents about how _proud_ they were of your cousin Bellatrix and her husband for finally being welcomed into You-Know-Who's innermost circle?" He does, but he doesn't understand what that had to do with— "Do you still remember the Ministry owl I got two days later?"

He doesn't, at first, but when he does, he's horrified. "We didn't recognize it for what it was," Sirius breathes. "You-Know-Who didn't really get started until this past year; it was mostly limited to just Muggle disappearances we'd read about in the _Prophet_ back then… not enough students' families were getting hurt back then to know a Ministry owl when you saw one."

Taking a shaky breath, she nods. "You must know the rumors… how You-Know-Who's followers are supposedly inducted into his top ranks with a murder mission of a wizarding family of their choosing. I'd been to your parents' house the summer before; you'd told me how badly you needed the company, and you must have thought that it wouldn't put me in any danger because I'm half-blood. But the way they must see it, one of my parents is a Mudblood, and the other is a blood traitor. Peter and James and Remus knew enough to stay well away from your family, but I didn't. Your family probably assumed I was the closest person to you, and even though you were still living at home back then, they'd already made up their minds that you were scum; even I could see that. So when your cousin had the opportunity to kill anyone she liked…"

Her voice is wobbling and she's staring at the ceiling, anything not to look at Sirius, and for a split second he wishes more than anything that they were fifteen again and they were still best mates because then maybe there'd be a chance she'd let him hug her or hold her hand or rub her back or _something_ to show her she wasn't alone, but it's been a long two years and he doesn't know if he wants to close the distance that's festered between them, and he sure as hell doesn't believe for an instant that she'd let him. A lot can happen in two years—they're testament to that—so he lets her talk uninterrupted, but it's not enough to placate the piece of him that believes she's still the same person as she was at fifteen, just as loyal and just as fiery, too, not a nice person but not the shell of bitter remarks and empty laughs that she's become, either. Emmeline has never been _nice_, exactly—for that matter, neither has Sirius, it's part of the reason why they always used to understand each other so well—but there used to be a hell of a lot of life in her, enough that no matter how rough around the edges she could be, her vulnerable side was like nothing Sirius had ever seen. He knew that girl, and he loved that girl, and he'd forgotten just how badly it broke him to _lose_ that girl—

He cusses, and loudly. "You thought I was responsible. I _was_ responsible—"

"You weren't!" cries Emmeline, swiping desperately at her eyes. "I thought you were for the longest time, but you weren't, it was just easier to blame you than some faceless Death Eater, you have to understand—"

"Just because I didn't intend it doesn't mean I didn't inadvertently put them in danger," says Sirius, shell-shocked. "That's why you started giving me the cold shoulder—because you were grieving and it was because of me? And I didn't understand what had happened, and that's why…"

He stops himself from saying it just in time. "Why what?" she asks, to no avail. "Sirius—"

"That's why I slept with Marlene!" So much for having discretion about the whole thing. Emmeline doesn't answer him. "Because we'd been such close mates, and we'd kissed a couple times, and when you cut me off—the other blokes weren't like you, and I thought maybe sex was what I needed to replace you, but it wasn't. But it was all I had, so I kept using her for it whenever she'd let me, and I…"

"Sirius, are you saying…?"

Almost too late, he realizes that she's coming closer, leaning in. "No," he says, more harshly than he intended—though, on second thought, that's probably for the best, Sirius decides as she pulls away sharply. "No, Merlin no, that was years ago, it's different now, Marlene and I are better now—and don't you and Peter have some sort of something going on these days? How could you think—why would you want to—"

"I don't know!" Emmeline cries, the closest to a breakdown that he's seen her yet. "I don't _know_ what I want, I don't _know_ what I'm doing, I don't _know_ how I'm supposed to go back to the way things were after hating all of you for two years of my life—I just feel so _alone_, and I don't know what to do to regain anyone's trust, I shouldn't even _have_ to, _my_ parents died—"

She's outright sobbing now, and it pains part of him to see her so distraught, but something in him has clicked off so that he can't find the compassion it would take for him to console her. "And we all would have been there for you two years ago if you'd bothered to tell us," says Sirius coldly. "You shut me out, not the other way around, so don't go digging for any empathy from me now that you think it's convenient to play the pity card."

"_What_? Sirius, I—"

"Just go," he tells her. She doesn't move, just stares at him, open-mouthed and sniffling. "Go! Get out! Get the hell out of my dormitory!"

She flinches, and he almost feels guilty for shouting at her, but whether or not he's in the wrong, Sirius knows he's too far beyond reason to work things out with Emmeline here and now. She rubs her face clear of tear tracks one last time and flees the room, and the ringing silence she leaves behind seems to echo with recollections of a love that never quite was.


	26. February 13th: Lily Evans

**Previously in the Darklyverse: **James hatched a plan to take action against Voldemort in the war (CH25), the truth about Emmeline and Sirius's fourth-year falling-out unfolded (CH25), Lily and Severus maintained a months-long silence following an explosive confrontation (CH13), and Lily and James shared a long-overdue kiss (CH24).

xx

**February 13****th****: Lily Evans**

Valentine's Day is fewer than twelve hours away, and Lily can't seem to escape James. As the Gryffindor sixth years are finishing lunch and leaving the Great Hall, he holds her back, asking with a tone of urgency, "Hey, Lily, can I run something by you? We can maybe take a walk around the grounds or something…?"

"James, it's February; it's freezing out," she reminds him, swinging her legs over the bench at the Gryffindor table.

He glances around and grins sheepishly, acknowledging the wind rattling the windows and the snow that seems to drift lazily through the enchanted ceiling towards them. "Just—come with me? It's about—well, it's important."

"All right," she says with a hint of suspicion, praying to Merlin that it really _is_ something important. She's managed to dodge all of his numerous attempts to corner her about Christmas so far in the last two months, but her luck is running thin enough that Lily doesn't trust it to protect her much longer. With James, she lags behind the larger group headed for Gryffindor Tower, following him as he takes a left turn past the staircase. "This wouldn't happen to have anything to do with Emmeline, would it? Marlene said she had some sort of a fight with Sirius, and none of us have seen her since—"

"Emmeline?" James echoes with a frown. "No, I haven't talked to her in a while, actually—although I can ask Padfoot about it, if you—"

"Oh, no, that's all right, I'll just look around for her once you've told me—whatever you wanted to tell me about," says Lily hastily.

He raises an eyebrow but doesn't push the issue. "It's—well, it's about the war," he says, lowering his voice. Knowing this, she lets out a breath and relaxes a bit as he goes on, "I was talking to Padfoot about it after the game yesterday—the usual row; you know how aggravating it gets, especially for Sirius."

Telling the others about the France fiasco brought the threat of Voldemort to the forefront of everyone's mind, and like Sirius, Lily has become well acquainted with the feeling of pervading hopelessness that it causes. Nodding, she sympathizes, "I know, but what else is there to be done? We've all agreed, there's not a lot we can contribute on our own. We're not even supposed to know about Dumbledore's group, and there's no way he would let us join him while we're still in school."

"But maybe we don't have to join up with Dumbledore to help. Maybe we don't have to fight directly in order to do something about it," says James excitedly.

"I—I'm sorry; I don't follow you."

"Think about it. Remember what we were talking about last fall, about how Voldemort's only support is coming from stuffy old pureblood families and the only shot in hell we have at winning the war is if we get young blood involved?" he says, struggling to keep his voice down and picking up the pace of their walk; she practically has to jog to keep up. Lily nods again. "We can't exactly go to battle with the Death Eaters without some kind of higher organization sending us on missions or giving us direction, but the one thing we _can_ do while we're in school that no one else can, not even Dumbledore, is get in touch with other students, find out who's likely to fight for and against You-Know-Who—and try to convert whoever is neutral, or even some of his supporters, to our side. Think about it!" he says again. "Professors can probably peg some of the Slytherins as future Death Eaters and some of the more outspoken ones, like us, as allies, but eighty-five percent of the time, the students do a pretty good job of acting pretty neutral or hiding their allegiances from the staff—and I'll bet you right now that most of the people in this school who don't want You-Know-Who to gain power probably aren't planning on doing anything to stop him, no matter what the teachers tell them they can or should be doing after graduation. People are shaped by their peers, Lily—being surrounded by other teenage witches and wizards gives us a double advantage; we can try and change some of the younger kids' mindsets about blood purity and recruit the older ones to get off their arses and _do_ something about it once they're out of school."

Starting to smile, Lily agrees, "It makes sense—but how do you think we should go about getting in touch with people about it? We don't really have a convenient platform for—"

"Lily, you're talking to a Marauder," says James. "That in itself is a platform—you'd be surprised how many people in this school are willing to listen to what Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs have to say. I figured we could hash out the details with everyone tonight, but I just wanted to run it by you first, see what you think."

"Well, if we can get it to work, I think it's brilliant," she says sincerely. "We'll definitely brainstorm more with everyone there tonight, all right? If that's everything, then, I really was hoping to find Emmeline and—"

"Lily, _wait_—"

"What?" she says, more snappishly than intended.

The look he gives her in response almost makes her regret avoiding him—almost. "I just—if you're looking for Emmeline, you might want to check for her in the Owlery."

"In the—what would she be doing in the _Owlery_? How would you even know—?" But James just gives her an embarrassed little wave and walks off, rumpling his hair as he goes. Momentarily, Lily considers running after him to pester him further about how, exactly, he was familiar with Emmeline's whereabouts, but preferring to avoid the risk of an unwanted confrontation, she decides against it, merely shaking her head and setting off in the direction of the Owlery.

In a way, her concern for Emmeline surprises even Lily herself. Emmeline has hardly been friendly with the other Gryffindors for a couple of years now, and Lily has grown accustomed to her borderline antisocial demeanor and sudden disappearances—if it weren't for the fact that she's been rowing with Sirius, Lily would probably think nothing of it. But Emmeline _has_ been rowing with Sirius, and according to Marlene she left the boys' dormitory in tears yesterday afternoon, and the Emmeline that Lily has come to know would never lose her composure like that, never. That Emmeline hasn't been seen since worries Lily—and her concern worsens twofold when she enters the Owlery to find her fellow Gryffindor not mailing a letter at all but, rather, sitting in a defeated heap amidst the straw and owl droppings on the floor.

Nervously, she clears her throat to make her presence known, averting her eyes when Emmeline glances up miserably at her. "James, er, told me that you might be up here," Lily says. "Do you mind if I—I mean, I don't want to bother you, but—is everything all right? It's just…"

Emmeline looks away without answering—hardly an encouraging sign, but at least she's not sending Lily away. Slowly, she crosses the room to join Emmeline on the ground, turning up her nose a little as she clears away the droppings. They just sit for a minute, Lily's heart beating out of her chest as she surveys Emmeline through the corner of her eye. Physically, the blonde looks awful, down to the ghastly pale shade of her skin and her bloodshot eyes, but even beyond that, her usual bitterness and rigidity have given way to an aura of exhaustion and defeat. "Em, I know we haven't always—er, we're not… but whatever it is, if you want to talk about it…"

"I don't want to talk about it," says Emmeline hoarsely. Then, a moment later: "I screwed up."

"Okay," she says, mind spinning. "Okay, well, whatever it is, I'm sure it's nothing you can't—"

"I'm not a very good person, Lily." That silences her instantly. "I'm a snobby, alienating bitch, but Sirius was always just as bad, and now…"

Tentatively, Lily places a hand on Emmeline's shoulder, bolstered when she doesn't flinch away. "You are not a bad person, all right? You're just—"

"Yes, I am. And it used to be fine because all of us were awful when we first got to Hogwarts—you would know; we were all awful to you especially. But we used to stick to our kind, we at least had each other… but now… I screwed up. You know it's bad when even _Sirius_ is too good for you."

"Listen, Em, I don't know what happened or what you did, but it can't be as bad as you think it is, can it?" insists Lily. "I didn't used to know either of you well, but it was obvious how much you two used to care about each other—that doesn't just go away, no matter how long it's been."

"Really. So you'd be willing to forgive Snape for what he did to you?" Lily doesn't answer. "Nobody wants anything to do with me anymore, and it's my own damn fault, so just… where am I supposed to go from here?"

Emmeline's tearing up again, so Lily gives her a minute to steady herself before she replies. "Just come to the sleepover tonight, all right? James wants to brainstorm about resistance for the war; Sirius can't hold it against you for wanting to help out, and whatever is going on, I don't think it's a very good idea for you to be alone right now."

"Right," Emmeline mutters, swiping at her eyes with chagrin.

"You know, for what it's worth, Em, I always appreciated that you were kind to me after you fell out with everyone else. When I was the outcast, I always knew you'd be there for me if I needed to lean on you—I knew how you felt about Severus, but you stopped holding it against me, and that meant a lot," says Lily.

Frowning, Emmeline asks dully, "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you deserve to know that I don't think you're a bad person," says Lily, "even if Sirius does. I'll see you tonight, okay?"

"Thanks, Lily," she says. By the time Lily steps out of the Owlery, Emmeline's hardly budged from where she was when Lily came in.

xx

She runs into Regulus Black in the library later that day. She's taken aback but determined to keep a level head when he hesitantly takes a seat next to her, laying his elbows on the table and making no move to pull out a textbook and work.

"Black," Lily greets awkwardly a few moments later, her concentration on her History of Magic essay hopelessly broken.

"Mudblood," Regulus responds.

Her stomach churns for just an instant, and then she feels nothing. She flashes him a brief, hard look and then slides her parchment between the pages of _Wizarding History and Current Events of the 20__th__ Century, 1976 Edition_, snaps the book shut, and begins to pack her things into her bag. "No, wait, Evans, I didn't mean that," he says hastily. "I didn't mean it, it's just force of habit and all—"

"Force of habit," Lily repeats, slinging her bag over her shoulder and standing. The words feel hollow as she says them. "Thought I'd be comfortable with you _having_ that habit as long as you didn't apply your bigotry to me, did you? Didn't you see how that ended between me and Severus last year?"

"He misses you," says Regulus. Her eyes soften, but not by much. "He still—he talks about you, you know, sometimes. What you said last fall about how quickly he gave up on trying to get you back really got to him. It wasn't that you meant too little to him to fight for you, he just—he couldn't understand how his beliefs were never a problem to you for so long until he slipped up and made one accidental personal attack, and it was like one mistake just erased all of the loyalty he had to you. You don't know how much that hurt him, Evans."

She's swelling with injustice and deflating with old wounds reopened. Lily doesn't think about Severus often these days, but when she does, it's still with more pain and indignation than she can handle. "It wasn't _just the one_ mistake, Black, it was the last straw in a long line of hypocrisy that I excused for too long, and by the way, how is this _any_ of your business?"

"It's not," he says feebly.

"What do you even _want_ with me, anyway? What are you doing here?"

"It's not like I went looking for you," says Regulus, "but then I found you and he mentioned you against last night and I can understand that, all right? My brother's a righteous bastard and there's no doubt I'll never speak to the bloke civilly again, but it doesn't mean I don't still miss him. Maybe you've got dirty blood, but for whatever reason, you still mean a hell of a lot to Snape, and he seemed to mean a hell of a lot to you, too, once, and it wouldn't be right to let you go on thinking he doesn't care about you when he does."

She stares unblinkingly at him for a moment, then says, "You're the one who stopped talking to Sirius when your family disowned him, not the other way around, and if you valued him more than you valued clinging to your prejudices, you wouldn't be in this situation, would you?"

"It's not just about outdated prejudices, Evans, it's about preserving an entire way of life—"

"Mudbloods are people, too, Regulus," Lily tells him, silencing him immediately. "You sound like a slave owner. Someday, the history books are going to look back on your lot, and you're going to be on the wrong side of them. You know that, right?"

He doesn't answer. "Say hello to my brother for me, will you?" he asks after a pause, quieter now.

"Say hello to him yourself," she calls back to him as she turns her back and stalks out.

xx

Emmeline comes. She sits huddled against the headboard of Peter's bed, shoulders hunched and knees drawn to her chest and fingers tracing patterns like protective wards onto the comforter, and she doesn't dare make eye contact with either Sirius or Marlene, but she comes and she listens and she nods along as James lays out the plan. "We've got to get the student body to mobilize," he says swiftly, as though they have no other choice, and they _don't_ have another choice, do they? "If Dumbledore and his inner circle are our only link to the war effort and they're not talking, the _only _thing we can do right now to fight is to make some noise using the platform we've got in this school. It'll be like recruitment—the more students who want to get involved, the more likely Dumbledore will listen and take advantage of us, and I'd be willing to bet we can make a hell of a difference just by getting students interested in taking direct action, maybe even getting some of them to change their minds about what they believe about blood purity and You-Know-Who's followers."

"So where do we start? We can't exactly just walk up to people and demand to know their loyalties and start giving speeches—nobody trusts anybody when it comes to things like this," Mary says, frowning. She chopped off most of her hair last month, and now oily black clumps of it are sticking up every which way in her complete lack of concern for her appearance.

"No, it'll have to be more subtle than that," muses Remus. "I imagine we could start up some kind of Marauder campaign—like pranks, only instead of Transfiguring all the professors into nifflers at the Sorting and setting off fireworks displays in the Great Hall, we'll keep the tone more serious and give people an indication that we're not just messing around this time. We can leave messages of some sort in places—like propaganda, almost—and see how much of a response we get. Keep it light for the appeal and to garner some interest, but not so light that we're not taken seriously."

"Feel out the reaction from different people and use that as a basis to identify who we can talk to directly and whether we're making much of a difference changing the younger kids' mindsets about everything," says Alice. "I like that."

With the slightest touch of doubt, Marlene says, "You realize that by touting this as a Marauder cause, you'll be putting yourselves in the line of fire of anybody who has it in for You-Know-Who's opponents." Her eyes flicker momentarily to Sirius, and they all know what she's thinking: even Regulus may very well leak the boys' names to the Death Eaters as potential threats.

There's an instant of dead silence, then Sirius says with a curious mix of hard solemnity and affection for her, "So be it. We're all Gryffindors here, aren't we?"

"We can work out the details of the pranks, if we're calling them that, later," decides Peter, his shoulders brushing with Emmeline's. "We should come up with a name—something to call whatever group we're able to assemble."

"The Order of the Kneazle," jokes James as Moonshine leaps into his lap—Lily and Emmeline brought their pets over from the girls' dormitory last night as part of an early spring-cleaning effort.

"No," says Mary slowly, "the Order of the Phoenix. We could incorporate phoenix imagery into the pranks, hype it up for the attention—but 'Order' still sounds pretty heavy, and phoenixes symbolize rebirth and eternity. We could use some of that in our message, reassurance that anybody who's lost a loved one thanks to this war hasn't had to see them die for nothing—that no matter how many times we're told we're too young, we'll jump back in with another way to contribute. Besides, Dumbledore's got Fawkes—maybe he'll take it as a message to him that we want in."

Lily and Alice both are beaming by the time Mary is through with brainstorming. Marlene gives her an approving squeeze of the shoulders, and with both genuine confusion and fondness, Sirius asks, "When did you get so clever, Mare?"

Bashfully, she gives a faint smile and continues to scratch behind Aquarius's ears. "Don't let the blonde bimbo phase fool you."

"All right, so we'll get started on the prank design over the next few days and try to get this up and running within a couple of weeks," James declares. "And in the meantime, we can keep an ear open to comments about the war from the people we see, try to scope out exactly what we're dealing with. Everyone good with that?"

They all chime in with their assent, and Lily and the girls slowly start to gather themselves and their pets together and filter back out of the room. "Go on without me," says Marlene, grinning—she must be sleeping over with Sirius to celebrate the holiday. Out the corner of her eye, Lily notices Emmeline stiffen but say nothing.

"You were awfully quiet in there, Lily," Alice observes once they're back in their own dormitory. "Haven't you and James been planning all this out together? I would have expected you to have more to say about how we go about all this."

"He seemed to have a handle on it, and anyway, everyone's suggestions were great as they were," says Lily vaguely.

Alice looks unconvinced, and she's not the only one. "What's been up between the two of you lately, anyway? You were getting so close-knit by Christmas, and it's like that's just been falling apart the last couple of months," says Mary.

"Nothing's up! We got close, and then we started drifting again. We were only even mates for a couple of months before this; it's nothing to be alarmed about," she says, maybe a bit too defensively.

"Uh-huh," says Mary, but neither she nor Alice pushes the issue further, and for that, Lily is grateful.

It's not until Mary, Alice, and Emmeline have all long fallen asleep that Lily finally allows herself to dwell on it. She and James _were_ getting close, and then he kissed her and she liked it and something got lost in translation and she bolted—hasn't had a proper conversation with him since. Something about not just befriending but _kissing_ the boy who tormented her best friend for five years and used to be her number-one toerag, kissing him and _liking_ it, was enough to kick Lily's fight-or-flight impulse into overdrive, and she fled the scene, taking the severed and fraying ties of their friendship in tow and leaving a two-month silence in her wake. She's not saying she did the rational thing, nor that one mere instant of panic was enough to make her shut James out again and forget all the reasons why she'd let him in, but—it was disconcerting, to say the least. It was disconcerting, and she liked it, and it was startling how quickly spending a few hours apart from him to get her bearings turned into a few days, a few weeks, a few months.

Talking to Regulus today, hearing for the first time since O.W.L.s that Severus was hurting, too—that, somehow, has shaken her even more than kissing James did. She wonders, not seriously but enough to give pause to the idea, if there's even the slightest chance that they could ever revive their friendship. She wonders if she should be worried that she's wondering.


	27. February 19th: Mary Macdonald

**Previously in the Darklyverse:** When Sirius and Marlene found themselves in a complicated and guilt-ridden sexual relationship, the other Gryffindors often interfered in light of strict wizarding laws against underage intercourse (CH9, CH23). Meanwhile, Mary grappled with the latest in a string of failed, short-lived relationships (CH20), Alice privately sought to reconcile her upbringing with Remus's lycanthropy (CH23), and Remus questioned the strength and nature of his friendship with Sirius (CH24).

xx

**February 19****th****: Mary Macdonald**

"_Enough_, Mary."

She clutches at her pillows and tucks her head between the two of them, chills running to her knees as a shock of air hits her. "Leave me alone, it's _Saturday_, I'm not even skiving off class," she tries to bark, but it comes out as more of a congealed puddle of moans than anything.

The top pillow's gone. Mary sinks beneath the bottom one, but then that's gone, too. "You've been moping for months—_months_!—over a boy you dated casually for how long? It's a Hogsmeade weekend, your birthday was yesterday—we're going out."

The voice begins to take shape into what she recognizes to be Alice's as the frigid sunlight stuns her awake. "I'm not going to go to Hogsmeade."

"We're not going to Hogsmeade," says Alice.

"What—not—_what_?" she says blearily, wincing as Alice tugs at her shoulders and attempts to prop her into a sitting position. "Who's _we_?"

"Me, Remus, Sirius. We're taking you out drinking. There you go, up you get," Alice coaxes, brushing short, sticky hairs away from Mary's temples and forehead.

The radically uncharacteristic words spilling out of Alice give Mary reason enough to drag herself into a drowsy state of wakefulness. "_What_? But you're _Alice_, you don't sneak off to go out _drinking_ with _Sirius_, everything about that is something you'd report to McGonagall—"

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm only coming because I'm the only one other than Lily or Emmeline who's old enough to Apparate out of the village, and the whole reason Sirius wants to get out in the first place is to get away from everybody's drama," says Alice briskly. "Remus said Sirius wanted to have him stay sober and take him by Side-Along even though he's uncertified, so I said I'd take care of it for them if I could bring you with me. My birthday gift to you. Awake? Good, let's get you dressed then, come on, sweetie…"

She's startled by Alice's sudden willingness to bend the rules—not even to _bend_ them but to crack them into splinters on a chopping block. Dazedly, then, Mary goes through the motions of dressing herself in robes suitable to wear underground and poking at her hair until her bed-head looks a bit more like an attempt at artistic stylization. "They already left half an hour ago—I told them we'd meet them in Zonko's. Ready to head out?"

The whole ordeal feels a bit surreal, if Mary's being perfectly honest. In the village, Sirius claps her on the shoulder and wishes her a happy birthday as Remus warmly hands her an overstuffed bag of Honeydukes treats "from all us Marauders," he tells her. "C'mon, let's find a remote enough spot to do this from."

A quarter of an hour and a disorienting Side-Along-Apparition later, they've arrived. "The Basilisk," says Sirius with a grin. "Best nightclub in the Wizarding Britain underground—not that it only operates at night, mind you."

She was just about to mention that the place is far more bustling than she'd have imagined for eleven o'clock in the morning—jam-packed, in fact, drinkers and dancers dimly lit by the torches sprinkled across the stone walls. From the outskirts of the crowd alone, Mary can spot a gaggle of hags out on the floor, as well as a pair of vampires up at the bar—one sullen, one evidently plastered, judging by his bellowing laughter and disconcertingly pink complexion. A poltergeist gleefully hurtles straight through the torsos of a pair of enraged wizards, and nearby, a goblin woman laments loudly to a visibly uninterested centaur, "I don't believe what he says about them working him late at Gringotts, you know, it's no secret to me all those antics he used to get up to with the mermaids across the way. There ought to be laws against that, honestly."

"Let's get shitfaced," says Sirius, and with an audible _humph_ from Alice, the four of them jostle their to the bar and squeeze in between a pale, heavily pregnant woman and a couple of wizards, maybe around fourteen, chattering away in Spanish over shots. "Round of firewhiskeys to celebrate the birthday girl," he tells the bartender, who, to Mary's surprise, serves them up without question. Clearly out of her usual bounds, Alice meekly calls for a butterbeer instead and awkwardly takes swigs from the bottle as Sirius downs half his whiskey in one gulp.

Sampling it, Mary chokes a bit but recovers quickly when something soothing rolls down her throat. "Bit lax security for a place like this," she remarks. "You'd think you wouldn't just be able to Apparate in like that, no questions asked."

"Oh, I don't think they'll be up for inspection anytime soon," says Sirius, belching.

"This sort of thing is—er—something of a dirty secret well-kept within the wizarding community," Alice says. "Everybody knows about it, but as long as it operates under the radar, the authorities turn a blind eye to it, for the most part."

"Dick around themselves in it, more like," snorts the pregnant woman in a thick French accent.

Mary whips around, both startled that she's addressed them and stricken by how _beautiful_ she is, all blonde-haired and grey-eyed and aglow. "Oh, sweetie, you've had a terribly sheltered life, haven't you?" she says to Alice with a surprisingly warm laugh, sipping on a firewhiskey of her own.

Sirius and Remus aren't rattled at all—strangers must fraternize pretty often here, she supposes—but Alice has been equally caught off guard and regards the woman for a moment, belly and all. "Are you sure it's wise to be drinking that when you have the baby to consider?" she says carefully.

"She's got bigger problems than a bit of alcoholism to worry her, believe me," she tells Alice, "and besides, I doubt it'll have any health effect on her, if the veela blood is strong enough."

Eyebrows drawn tight, Mary says, "But you're not—you can't be—"

"Half," she says, and drags at length on her bottle. Alice shoots the others an incredulous look, but Remus shakes his head subtly and Sirius positively glowers—and Mary realizes that there've got to be pureblood politics at hand here, between Remus and the woman's part-human statuses and the remarks on the legality of the bar. "Apolline, by the way, and you are-?"

"Alice."

"Alice. Pureblood?"

"Yes," she says rigidly.

"Well, Alice, the part your parents haven't told you is that your Ministry—hell, my Ministry, any Ministry you like, even—they don't just ignore the industry, they're the ones behind it," says Apolline. "Does your lot still get up to arranged marriages these days?"

Alice says "no" at the exact moment Sirius says "yes." They look at each other, Alice dubiously and Sirius with exaggerated disgust. "Not in all the pureblood families anymore, not in Alice's or James's, but they sure as hell still do it in the inner circles. It's why the rich ones never date anybody, because their betrothals haven't been finalized yet. If our mums had their way, I'd be happily engaged to Raleigh Greengrass by now and James to Dorcas Meadowes."

"You're _joking_!" says Mary, starting to feel a bit lightheaded now that a third of her bottle's been drunk.

"Yeah, well, it's all about preserving the bloodline, isn't it? It's where all the underage sex laws come from, too—they were written as extra incentive to keep purebloods from getting ideas about shagging outside their carefully selected marriages and rebelling against their parents' little plans for them, or God forbid tainting the tree with an unplanned pregnancy, because you can never be too sure about contraceptives, can you? Isn't that right, Apolline? You'd know all about that, wouldn't you, if you're a half-breed? That's what they call you, isn't it, half-breed? Right lot of pissy little arseholes—"

Rather counterproductively, in Mary's steadily blurring opinion, Remus calms Sirius down by cajoling him into more firewhiskey. "It's all right, he's right, at any rate," Apolline says calmly. "You know out in the Muggle world they've been going through a sexual revolution? Why other than societal conditioning do you think that hasn't filtered into the wizarding world as well? Especially at a place like Hogwarts—you are from Hogwarts, aren't you, dears?—big castle like that, all those hormones running wild, all those hidden corners."

"Sirius has sex," blurts Mary, watching Apolline with rapture. "He and Marlene have been going at it since fourth year—Sirius, this is Sirius, this one," she says, shaking his shoulder a little. He shakes her off roughly, angrily.

"And I don't suppose any of you have ever let him forget that, have you?"

"Mostly because of Marlene, we're not all purebloods, I'm a Mudblood, that's what they call me, I've had a lot of boyfriends, but I haven't had sex with any of them, but that's because I'm _Catholic_," she says importantly, puffing out her chest, "not that it matters because I'm damned anyway for doing magic."

"You're not damned, Mary," says Remus quietly.

"If anyone's damned, it's the purebloods," says Apolline. "It's the men and women both—they're forced into marriages they don't want with spouses they only sleep with for procreation, and it's not like they want honest-to-goodness emotional affairs on their consciences, not with the way they've been brought up, which is where the sex trade and underground spots like The Basilisk come into play. Go in, drink up, hook up, chalk it up to whatever you put in your system, and carry on the next morning with your head held high because it was one time with a stranger, doesn't mean it's ever going to happen again, until it does, and does, and does. The best part's the anonymity, because if God forbid you do taint your bloodline you can't be traced. Now, if you're a woman, that's a different story, but just because you give birth doesn't mean the thing's your child if you can't say for sure that it's a pureblood, so usually she'll drop the babe off somewhere in the black trade to be brought up the hard way."

"She's making it up," Alice dismisses. "The laws aren't some backhanded design to perpetuate sexual repression, it's for our own goods, what fourteen-year-old would _want_ to get pregnant and face all those challenges? Better to be strict about it, and it _works_, doesn't it? It's like you said, there's so much opportunity to shag up at school, but nobody does, do they?"

Sirius says dryly, "Standing right next to you, Abbott."

"Oh, never mind _you_, you're the exception—and it works, it does, people don't even mention that at school, I doubt people even know how to get out of the castle for things like this, and never in seventeen years have I ever caught wind of a single scandal, that's despicable."

"They don't talk about it because it's not something that's talked about, it's just something that's _done_ that you don't admit to, why do you think you never hear about it from your precious little prefect's seat?" erupts Sirius.

"Don't push it, mate," Remus responds, "just have another drink, yeah?"

"It's true, you know," says Apolline. "Sweetheart, I'm sure I'm not the only half-veela you've seen before, but you never see a relationship between a human and a veela. It's how my mother's made her living all her life, it's how I had to until—"

"Oh, for the love of—"

Not entirely sure _why_ she's jumping to Apolline's defense, Mary says, "It's true, veela aren't _around_, are they? I know they're the mascots for the Romanian—no, Ukra… no, _Bulgarian_ National Quidditch Team but that's _it_, _mascot_, mascots aren't people, it just shows off their looks, which are very nice, but that's not the point."

"Goblins pigeonholed into Gringotts, centaurs corralled into forest reservations," says Remus pensively. "Hell, the whole Beast, Spirit, and Being hierarchy is only in place to keep wizards at the top of the pyramid. Werewolves can't come out because they'll essentially be forced to survive underground—"

Alice retorts, "_Because they're dangerous_! There's no _cure_, Remus, you know that!"

"Oh, so you think Remus should be _forced under the streets_ now, do you?" demands Sirius, knocking aside the drink in Remus's hand. "He got bitten as a kid, he didn't ask for this, and that's supposed to negate everything he is as a human being, is it?"

"Sirius, it's all right, I was surprised everyone didn't react like this—"

"Damn that, Remus, if she attacks you then she attacks me, too!"

Alice says impatiently, "I'm not _attacking_ him, Sirius, it's just what's _best_—can't you see, Remus wouldn't have been bitten if werewolves just followed the laws and came clean and didn't put themselves in a position to _harm_ people! At least it's something that they keep Remus locked up when it's time, because I _know_ he wouldn't want to hurt anyone—"

"Locked up so he can claw himself half to death if he doesn't have anybody else to tear up, because that's what _happens_, Alice, that's what he goes through, how is _that_ fair?"

"How is it fair to—"

"Settle _down_, it's all right!" interrupts Remus, starting to break a sweat. "_Sirius_!"

Reluctantly, Sirius backs away from Alice, panting. Hesitantly, Apolline says, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to provoke—I was only—"

Mary burps and informs her, "That's all right, you're very pretty, you know," and with that she leans in and pecks the woman on the lips.

"That's very kind, sweetheart, but I'm—"

And with that, she breaks down in tears. A pair of arms that she thinks belongs to Remus folds itself over her shoulder, around her waist, clasping in the front, enveloped and not letting go; distantly, she hears him say, "I'm sorry about all the trouble, Apolline, we should probably be off now—take care of yourself, all right? Mary," he adds close to her head, quieter, "are you going to be okay, can you get up so Alice can Apparate us out of here?"

"Come off it, Remus, you don't have to coddle her just because she's turned out to be a lightweight," snarls Sirius.

"Piss _off_, Padfoot, come on, just take hold of Alice's hand, there you go—Alice, you don't have to be pleased with him, but just pull it together and get us back to Hogsmeade before you turn on him, all right, please?"

And then they're back and the snow bleeds grey into her knees and she's still clutching that ridiculous Honeydukes gift from the boys in her trembling hand. Alice is gone and Sirius is too and Remus is holding holding carrying kissing her forehead waving his wand and then the Whomping Willow is standing still why is it standing still and she's falling falling and deposited in a heap of blubber and burp at his feet. She wails. "It's going to be all right, Mary, just cry it out until you sober up, okay? Here—" and he sprawls out on the floorboards, nudges her head into the crevice above his collarbone, curls himself around her, massages her head, rubs her back, _breathes_.

And Mary breathes, too, but it's like sucking through a straw she's plugged at the bottom with her thumb, like asthma attack, like body and body and skin are ballooning around her and she is so small so so so and the air is coming in through a pair of binoculars pointing the wrong way like pinprick at the end like she is a pinprick in all of this shaking, all of this skin. Like sitting in the confessional lying through teeth like there aren't any things that she does that she doesn't mean to do like useless bitch bottom of the class like girlfriend none of them can keep, like dry ice disappearing before she can touch it or anything can touch her. Like maybe this has been a long time coming, more than that, ice born and ice bred and ice all scattered on the wind out the fingers she can never seem to make touch.

She breathes and she breathes and then one minute she slows. Her head is clearer now. "Will it help to talk about it?" Remus asks, and it won't, but his hands are big and warm on her snow-drenched robes and his cheek is resting on top of her head and his words are kind and not a lot of people's words are often very kind.

"I thought it was Reg, but maybe it's just what he does," she says slowly.

"What's that?"

"Proof." Breath breath breath, one two three, steady. "I like him. I always like them. They're very sweet or charming or—whatever."

"You have good taste," he says and smiles.

"Never good enough," she tells him. "To last. I try to make it be." Breath breath breath breath breath breath, one two three four five six, not steady, eff it, open and "She was very pretty." Breath breath "Marlene is very pretty, too."

"She is."

Breath. One. "I'm not, though. I just miss Reg and it's getting to me, that's all."

"Okay."

"I'm Catholic."

"Okay."

She sits up, and Remus does, too, knees touching. "Want to know a secret?" he asks her, knees so close and she nods and "I like girls, but sometimes I think I might like Sirius a little, too."

And he's talking to her like they're second years trading crushes, and they're _not_, but maybe they are. Either way, it feels more considerate than condescending, and she doesn't laugh, doesn't press, just holds her knees so still because if she stays and he stays, and if here is safe, then nothing will be hers to own and everything will be little as a pinprick over _there_. But silence is never safe long before her head starts to sink in, so at last she scooches back and says, "Can we go get a really big lunch at The Three Broomsticks?"

"Sure," says Remus, and off they go.

In the dorms that night, neither she nor Alice has much of anything to say. "Is it true what James and Pete were saying, that you really went out drinking with Sirius?" Marlene grills Alice when she and Lily first come back that night, flushed and weighted down with shopping bags. "Because I wouldn't have believed it coming from just J, but—"

"We and Remus took Mary out for her birthday, yeah," says Alice shortly. "They drank, I didn't so I could Apparate them there and back, we didn't stay long."

"Oh," says Marlene, making a face at Lily when Alice's back is turned. Mary doesn't meet her eye—doesn't, in fact, for the rest of the night.

When the others are long asleep and she assumes it's only her still awake, Mary jumps a bit when someone pulls her curtains the slightest bit back—Alice. "You still up?" she whispers, so softly.

She's tempted to lie, just so this day will _end_ already, but doesn't. "Yeah," says Mary, scooting over so Alice can lie atop the covers next to her on the bed. Funny, she thinks, that today both started and now ends with Alice, only it's really not funny at all because she _knows_ and it's worse than that, she said all those things, all those awful pureblood Remus things. "You're an arse, you know."

"I'm not an arse just because I—"

"Remus is a person, not some kind of, like, bloodthirsty beast, a _person_ with a life and a conscience who's probably blaming himself for things he's not even conscious to control and—"

"I never denied that! I just—"

"You're an arse," says Mary, and Alice doesn't say anything at all. "Look, about the thing—don't tell, okay?"

"The-?" Then her brow straightens and her cheeks fall. "I wasn't going to, but it's nothing to be ashamed of—I didn't think there was anything to tell. You got drunk and a bit sloppy, and it happens—loads of people do loads worse than kiss a pregnant half-veela, you know? Most blokes would do worse when they're sober around a pregnant half-veela, even, I bet."

And they look at each other and after a second they have to stifle their laughter, except Mary's isn't really _laughter_ so much as a whimper. "No, I know, it's just a stupid drunk story, but I don't want—I know you think I should let go and everything, but I don't want it to maybe get back to Reg and mess up my chances, that's all."

"Sure, whatever you want. Just be careful, okay?"

"Yeah, you, too," and she's not sure whether she's talking about Frank or Remus or Sirius or that funny little world in Alice's head that's maybe starting to spin too fast.


	28. February 21st: Peter Pettigrew

**Previously in the Darklyverse:** Motivated by Lily's firsthand knowledge that France refuses to assist Britain in fighting Voldemort (CH24), the Gryffindors informally organized to raise awareness about Voldemort, adopting The Order of the Phoenix as its moniker (CH26); conflict arose between Alice and Sirius regarding Alice's quasi-purist upbringing (CH27), and Sirius reacted harshly to Emmeline's attempt at reconciliation (CH25).

xx

**February 21****st****: Peter Pettigrew**

"Careful." He seizes Mary's hand, then whips out his wand and mutters a few incantations, eyebrows furrowed; she tugs herself out of his grasp and raises her hands towards her chest as if in resentful surrender. "There, try it now, it'll just start screaming otherwise."

"Seriously?" she says, crossly snatching back the book and letting its stained pages fall open into her bony fingers. She's lost weight the last few months, skin taught and face gaunt.

Peter sighs and turns away, scanning the titles on the shelf. "Well, what else would you expect from Hogwarts? We don't have a permission slip to be back here."

"I know _that_, Peter, I just thought you'd have been able to get a note from McGonagall or someone so you wouldn't have had to spend the last week cracking the spell. It's not like we're looking up Dark magic or anything."

"For the night before we start rolling out the Order to the rest of the school? It'd look too suspicious. This isn't like the other pranks; we're not doing it for attention, we _need_ to be anonymous if we're going to have a chance in hell of pulling it off."

"That's fair, I guess," says Mary as he sinks down the bookshelf to join her where she's reading, cross-legged and intent, on the ground. Short minutes pass as they skim chapters and scrawl the occasional note on the parchment leafs they've brought, Peter flipping slower than her through his volume—he's not entirely sure what the hell went down on Saturday that's got her so rattled, but whatever it was, it seems to have jolted Mary out of her stupor and into frenzied action to kick-start publicity for the Order of the Phoenix. "Ten Galleons says it wasn't Dumbledore's choice to keep this stuff locked up in the Restricted Section," she scoffs.

"No kidding. From what Marlene's uncle says about the Auror division, they've _got_ to be leaning on the _Prophet_ to keep it all quiet—just look at this, _Wizarding Genealogy and the Ministry_."

Urgently, he jabs several times at an adorned figure spanning a full two-page spread, what looks to be a web delineating the power hierarchy of the British Ministry of Magic. A startling number of titles are annotated with British pureblood surnames and _purist_ or _neutralist_ designations. She brushes shoulders with him to peer at it, shallow breath scraping his neck, and says, "Read what it says right there—'the influence of known purist members of the Ministry reaches far enough that the British Ministry of Magic has enacted no new Muggle or Muggle-born protection legislation in the last two decades.' When was this published?"

Peter flips to the front of the book. "1974—" barely three years prior.

"That's disgusting."

They drop to silence for a longer while still, Peter squinting to make out the tight print in the lamplight. The research, too, was Mary's initiative. In the grudgingly agreed vein that the best they can do for now is to raise student awareness and interest in the war, the idea is to counter common assumptions about blood purity and complacency with the Ministry's role thus far. To change anybody's mind, they're going to need to make grand gestures. To make an effective grand gesture, they're going to need to back it up with facts. To get facts, solid facts, they're going to need to spend a lot of time in the library.

Such is how he's found himself in his least favorite corner of the castle, poring over classified texts on purism and the Ministry during time that could be better spent pulling up his marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Or sleeping. Preferably sleeping. While Sirius and James were getting stone drunk for all of Sunday, he worked out with Remus the logistics and spellwork of their first prank—if it can be called a prank; it's not exactly comparable to their usual mischievous activities, and far more elaborate than the norm at that—and all that's left to do now is to look up exactly what they think the rest of the school needs to hear.

"Hey, Peter?"

In his reverie, it takes a second for the words to register. "Yeah," he says after a moment, still reading.

"Thanks for coming and helping and stuff."

"No big deal."

"No, really," says Mary, and he lets go the book he's holding and shifts to face her; "because James and Sirius have been out getting plastered, Emmeline is… Emmeline, and then Alice is off working all the time because she does that when she's cross, you know, like she wants to show everybody up by proving what a model prefect she is—and it's like Lily and Marlene don't even care when I try to bring it up to them. Remus was great and everything with the spells, but you—you've just been really great, out of everybody."

"But it's—_not_," he falters, looking back to his lap. "I don't—everybody's busy, it's just a couple hours—"

"_Just a couple hours_."

Peter grins and doesn't meet her eye. "Don't worry about it, okay? Anyway, I'm really proud of you for taking charge and planning everything out and putting in all the—the rote work, you know? You've been really creative, and—and you don't give yourself enough credit, I don't think, sometimes."

"Neither do you. Everybody gives Sirius and James all the credit because they've got the big personalities or whatever, but half the time you're the one running it," says Mary.

"I'm not that clever," he says, feeling a bit hot.

"Yeah, well, just because you're only going for five N.E.W.T.s doesn't mean you're not clever."

"You ever think about looking at yourself like that for a change?"

She rolls her eyes, raises her quill. "I'm not doing this because I'm _clever_ or anything, I just—like, it feels good to be _doing_ something for once. I'm rubbish at magic, I'm rubbish at everything, but—"

"You're not rubbish."

"You sound like a less pretentious version of Gilderoy."

"Shut it," he says, and then, "_Lockhart_?"

They're both bleary-handed and heavy-gaited the next morning at breakfast; he shuffles into his seat at the Gryffindor house table and accidentally ladles far too much syrup onto his waffles. "I'm guessing that means the research went well last night?" says Marlene, grinning.

"If by 'well' you mean 'slowly,'" says Mary, but she and Peter trade smiles all the same.

Delicately swallowing a sip of orange juice, Alice asks, "So we're doing one a day, right? Not just in the Great Hall but making sure that each one somehow reaches each student—"

"Only if you think you can stomach that much radicalism," says Sirius, aimlessly stabbing at his plate with his fork.

"For Godric's sake, Sirius, just because we happen to disagree on a few finer political points—"

"_Finer points_, Merlin's buttocks, you as good as called Remus a _half-breed_—" Sirius drops his voice accordingly "—right in front of his face and—"

Remus says, "Sirius, I keep telling you, it's fine, it's reasonable enough for her to think what she does, it's about common safety—"

"Eff common safety, he's not just some—"

"Sirius, I get where you're coming from, but you don't have to attack Alice to get your point across." It's Emmeline interrupting him, to Peter's surprise, quiet but sounding more like her old self than he's possibly heard in years, the girl who used to match Sirius well enough to keep him in check. Marlene raises her eyebrows and glances to Lily and back. "Bugger off if you'd rather milk your pissiness than get along with everyone for the five minutes it takes to play this out, but spare everybody the blowout for later, we've got an operation to run here."

No one's quite sure how to take that, especially Sirius, who stares down Emmeline in equal parts belligerence, shock, and bemusement. For lack of a decisive response, he starts rapidly devouring the contents of his plate with one last dirty look at Alice.

"Speaking of," says Remus. Sandwiched between James and Mary, it goes unnoticed by the rest of Gryffindor table when he slips a hand into his pocket and retrieves—nothing, or to be precise, what Peter knows to be a Disillusioned bit of nothing.

"Right." Remus taps it twice with his wand under the table. "That'll give it about ten seconds to make it up and a bit more for visibility—go get her," he says quietly and tosses it out behind him.

For a split second, they all just _wait_—and then James says, "Don't just sit there, blend in," and they snap back to their breakfasts, Marlene setting into a complaint against the essay Flitwick assigned yesterday.

It begins inconspicuously enough—in his periphery, Peter watches Professor McGonagall look left, then right, then left again with a frown. She shrugs to Professor Sprout and reaches for her goblet, then ducks fully with that frown deepening as a buzzing noise begins, louder and louder until it's catching the attention of the full student body. They glance amongst themselves in confusion for a few moments until McGonagall's involuntary dance catches somebody's attention and then they're openly pointing with one another, questioning, Peter and the Gryffindors playing right along among them.

And then you can _see_ it and it's just a bit of paper, just a harmless bit of paper flapping around McGonagall's head, and she's pulling out her wand but it's too quick to hit, and it's getting so _loud_, and it's refolding itself from a neat little square into—is that supposed to be a paper airplane? Is that someone's idea of cleverness? But Professors Sprout and Flitwick and Sinistra are clapping their hands over their ears and McGonagall's lip is thinning and it's gusting such great winds down from the High Table, Dumbledore's beard positively windswept and robes aflutter all the way to the opposite ends of the house tables, and finally McGonagall's wand aligns with it just right—

But it's not ripping itself up or freezing midair or falling gracefully into her lap or even into her breakfast, the buzzing is giving way to a deafening echo of a four-string orchestral chord and it's rocketing high above the tables where all can see and bursting into a streaming banner, rippling in its own wind, proclaiming in such heavy, heavy black, "FACT: In December 1976, France set a European precedent by denying aid to Britain in the war against the Death Eaters."

And now it's the students themselves who are deafening, whether stricken by the proclamation itself or the radical shift to the foreboding or the impending _now_ness of it or the insult to their pureblood privilege, and the banner swells like a balloon and lets them erupt, lets them revel in it, takes its sweet time and then at once, like it's been waiting all along to make its comeback, drowns out them all with an earsplitting _bang_, and in instants the banner tears itself to pieces that set themselves aflame, scarlet sparks arising out of the glow in the unmistakable shape of a phoenix, wings raised and stretching high above its head, hovering, cindering, and at last reduced to smoke.

It's hard, so hard, to seek out a reaction as if he's as surprised as the rest of the school. "Remus, that's spectacular," whispers Lily, "how'd you manage it again?"

"Enchanted Howler—took the basic principles and adapted them to fit—adapted them a _lot_. Peter's idea, actually; he put more into it than I did."

They can't congratulate him here, now, but everyone's gaze flickers fleetingly to Peter and he doesn't want their looks, doesn't want anything but to get started fast as he can on tomorrow's demonstration. And then Mary says, "Glad I won't be with you lot for Transfiguration in half an hour," and he doesn't want anything but to survive the next ninety minutes.

He glances to the High Table to glimpse McGonagall's reaction—torn, now, but between _what_ Peter isn't sure. Lily is starting to enter full panic, emitting a low stream of "there's no way we'll be able to fake it in front of her for the whole class, she's going to find us out, she'll get a confession even if she can't get any proof, especially if we're going to keep this up, she knows I interned in France, she knows that came from me, the problem's not even house points, she's going to take it up with Dumbledore that we're too young to try to get involved and this is all going to backfire so badly, we won't be able to see it through, we're all—"

"Lily, _breathe_," says James, but she shrugs him off, rubbing her temples.

Peter can't entirely read her when they reach her classroom, but judging by the thin, thin line her eyebrows make, whatever they've got in store can't be all good. "Some stunt that was at breakfast," she says as Remus pulls shut the door behind them and Peter stumbles into his seat, the fatigue returning now the adrenaline from breakfast is starting to wear off.

"Wasn't it?" James says, flicking a bit of lint off his robes and then looking up to smile cheerily at McGonagall.

"One of you and Black's stunts, I imagine?"

"Not at all."

Clearly, she was expecting this. "The level of difficulty may have far exceeded anything I've yet seen you do, Potter, but given your proclivity for school-wide pranks and considering that Miss Evans is presumably the only student at Hogwarts who's aware of the situation with France—"

"Professor, I assure you that Padfoot and I have been, ah—otherwise engaged over the past few days and wouldn't have had the time to dream up the display from this morning, let alone execute it," says James with a smirk.

"He's telling the truth, Professor, we didn't know what was going to happen until this morning," says Alice, timidly at first but her voice growing stronger. "And—whoever was responsible could have found out about France somewhere else—they quoted it as fact; they'll have to back that up with sources, haven't they? And I remember there was a line in the back of the _Prophet_ about it once, they could have caught onto that and done further reason. There's no reason why Lily _had_ to have been involved."

McGonagall's nostrils have stopped flaring, at least, and she says, "Whoever _was_ involved ought to realize that Dumbledore has made it explicitly clear that students are too young to participate in the war, let alone join up with some sort of—of renegade student organization and that this will not be taken lightly."

"I'm sure they will, Professor," says James calmly.

"They ought to realize as well the danger of voicing such strong political statements openly and that it is in their best interests to protect their anonymity from the rest of the student body."

"As they clearly do, Professor."

"And that so long as their actions remain informational _only_ and do not disrupt their fellow students' safety and education—they have my full support."

"I'm sure they would appreciate that very much, Professor."

Peter can hardly believe their luck. Smiling thinly and giving James the slightest nod, McGonagall turns to the blackboard and instructs, "Very well, then, if you could all turn to page 487…"

The facts continue throughout the week—not all of Peter's design, to his regret, but homework calls and there's only so much extracurricular spelling a wizard can work in one day. On Wednesday, they set off a round of fireworks at dinner; Thursday is subtler, featuring embroidery spiraling across the body of every student's wizard's hat. "Everyone thinks it's us, don't they?" says Alice later that night, idly twirling her hat in her hands.

They're in the boys' dormitory, just the two of them—Remus and James are out working on tomorrow's demonstration (set to take place in all four individual common rooms and as such requiring Remus's prefect knowledge of the passwords), and Sirius is probably off snogging Marlene somewhere in determined avoidance of Alice. "I think they did at first, at least the others in our year—Mary says all the Hufflepuffs have been asking her about it—but I think it's starting to make them wonder about it that there's the phoenix emblem on all of them, _that's_ new, and that we haven't come forward, they'd think we would have by now. Plus that Dumbledore's practically been encouraging it," he adds: the headmaster made a point of wearing his pointed hat around the castle all day and applauded last night's dinnertime display, to McGonagall's visible disdain.

"That's true," says Alice softly.

There's a short but uncomfortable pause. "Looking forward to what we've got planned for next week?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Alice…" She looks over at him, half hidden behind careful blonde curls and a fixedly pleasant smile. "You _are_… I mean, you do want to be doing this, right? After whatever's going on with you and Padfoot and whatever it is you said about—"

"How many times am I going to have to defend myself to all of you?" says Alice, lips still upturned, eyes rounder now in appeal. "I may not believe that the Ministry is pulling some kind of—of conspiracy to keep Muggle-borns in line, but that doesn't mean I think it's okay for You-Know-Who to go around _murdering_ them, that's sick, that's absolutely sick."

"I'm not saying you do," Peter says gently, "and it's not like I'm an expert on it or anything, my parents are Muggles, but—but don't you see that seeing through the Ministry is half the battle here? I mean—You-Know-Who's been at it for how many years now, and how much progress has the Ministry made fighting him? Honestly, think about it, they don't even—when you read about it in the _Prophet_, even then they just talk about him like he's a whack job terrorist, but he wouldn't get this much support if his followers didn't believe in some kind of ideology—"

"Of course they do, _killing Muggles_, and I'm not saying there's no discrimination, but that doesn't mean it's the Ministry's _fault_ that purism exists."

"Okay, so the Ministry didn't create purism, but wouldn't it make sense if purism created the Ministry?" Alice says nothing. "Magical government has been around since way before anybody started thinking about Muggles and Muggle-borns. Up until—what, the 1600s?—it was always just back-and-forth between witch hunts and oppression of Muggles; the International Statute of Secrecy was the first time anybody ever thought about Muggles like they were—like _people_, _ever_."

"Peter, it's been over three hundred years since then."

"Three hundred years isn't a very long time in wizard history, just ask Lily."

She purses her lips and places her hat on the mattress beside her, pulls close her copy of _Numerology and Gramatica_, and says, "I don't have time to validate to you my sincerity in fighting You-Know-Who; I have four essays due next week already."

"Alice, please don't be like this—"

Sitting there next to him, she is tucked so neatly together with her hat at her side, textbook at her knees, quill behind her ear, curving _just so _over her parchment; and Peter wonders what she's going to do when she learns that she, too, breathes and swallows and blinks. "Like what? Honestly, let's not do this, Professor Vector wants a whole meter and I'm already behind schedule."

Friday is the first chance all week he gets to catch Emmeline alone. "Walk with me," she invites after breakfast, and so he does, following her out onto the grounds. By the lake, it's cuttingly cold, and he jams his fists low into his robe pockets and pulls his arms rigid and tight to his frame, chin bent to his neck. "You were really amazing on Tuesday, you know that?"

"Thanks," he says, tripping a little. "Things with Sirius going all right?"

"Considering that the alternative is probably him going off at me every time we're within earshot, I'd call 'all right' an understatement," says Emmeline.

"I'm sorry, that bad?"

"I just… I was an arse, I _know_ I was an arse, but it wasn't for no reason, was it? My parents were dead and everything felt so… _gone_—he doesn't know what it was like in—in my head," she says. Emmeline's never been artful in saying these things; she used to speak brashly, and then she spoke nothing at all, and now that she's come back to herself, she flounders in the slightest surface ripple. "You get—_gone_ like that and you lash out, you _have_ to. But now—and he's got Marlene, and I don't think he's told her anything, but Merlin, the way she's been looking at me lately, and I just want it to be like before, Peter, that's all I want."

"I could talk to him," Peter offers, for lack of anything better to say.

She laughs weakly and says, "No, that's all right, don't, I should… it'll just take time, it'll be fine. He'll come around."

"Honestly, Em, I think there's a chance this thing with Alice will make him forget all about it," says Peter.

"With Alice, really? What's even going on with her lately? She's always had a bit of a stick up her arse, to be perfectly honest—" there she is again, the Emmeline of old, harsh but only for the sake of harshness "—but it's not like Sirius hasn't known that since we were eleven, so why _now_?"

"I think—none of them are talking about it much, but I _think_ what went down is she was debating politics with him and made a dig at werewolves."

"But Remus—"

"I know, and Moony was there, too. Didn't say much for himself, though, not that he needed to with Sirius going off on her."

Emmeline raises her eyebrows. Unlike Peter, she's loose, her arms swinging out even in the chill that's slowly bleaching the color from her hands. "That's bull, poor Lupe. Sure, it makes sense for werewolves to take precautions and everything against biting anybody else, and it was a bit of a shock to find out about him, but that doesn't mean anything about—about _Remus_, just that he deals with a lot."

"Yeah. Merlin knows how long it'll take for this one to blow over."

Emmeline shakes her head a bit, walks backward and faces him for a moment before turning back around. "It's funny, actually."

"What is?"

"Remus Lupin—funny name for him, that's all." And then, without giving Peter a chance to process this, she adds, "But hey, is there anything I can do to help you and Mary with the Order stuff? I feel like I've been useless all week."

"Yeah, actually, what do you think of purple and white?"

"Purple and white?"


	29. February 28th: Emmeline Vance

**Previously in the Darklyverse:** Denied their requests to get involved with Dumbledore's underground movement against Voldemort, the Gryffindors took matters into their own hands, dubbing themselves the Order of the Phoenix and conducting a series of pranks that target education about the war and blood purity prejudice (CH26). While Professor McGonagall suspected the Marauders as the perpetrators, Lily and James were surprisingly absent from the effort as Mary and Peter took charge of the anonymous initiative (CH28).

Emmeline struggled to make sense of her fragmented relationships with her housemates, having fallen out with them for two years after blaming Sirius for her parents' death at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange (CH25, CH26). And the Gryffindors' reputations preceded them in their public interactions with students of other houses, like the admiring Mildred LeProut (CH25), while they were often judgmental toward peers like Dana Madley, Frank Longbottom's Ravenclaw girlfriend known better for her sexual indiscretions than for her cleverness (CH17).

xx

**February 28****th****: Emmeline Vance**

Honestly, she probably fell into Divination as some kind of jacked-up attempt at self-help. It's like how Mary takes care of plants since no one can pick up her own pieces, or when Alice retreats into the library and starts acing essays whenever (god forbid) she ends up at the wrong end of a quarrel. Crystal balls suddenly got a lot more interesting in fourth year when Emmeline didn't want to see anyone else, because then nobody could see her, either, past that shroud of mysticism and spooky one-liners. Suddenly she was unnerving, and within the grandeur of it she could crouch down unnoticed to pass her judgments, some of them accurate, others not.

Everyone projects. Most people around here attach, too, which is probably what makes Emmeline so inaccessible. Since she's so big on divining, she sees it as an energy thing; she's spent a few years diverging, rewiring to remember that _she's_ over _here_, _he's_ over _there_, just because he kissed her and then killed her parents (or didn't, or close enough) doesn't mean _he_ has to be over _here_ to loom, to haunt—but these Gryffindors are bad at that, aren't they, staying out of each other's heads, and she can still feel herself trailing out the door behind him whenever he leaves, it still takes an hour to pull her mind back into her body from whichever part of the castle she's vaguely aware he's in. He is so tall, magnetic. She intermingles. Emmeline tangles into everyone, into her roommates' limp fingers when they sleep in the night where she lies, and she's been trying to pull her head into her head since fourth year and it never seems to do any damn good.

It feels like crashing, this thing where she tries to be friendly again because it isn't worth it to hate anymore when she is _so tired_, but these Gryffindors are terrible at keeping distinct and Emmeline is, too; she's a born-and-bred witch, and wizards keep close when they're so few in a dull world, and Hogwarts keeps _close_ when you sleep beside the same faces for seven years. She wanted to find Emmeline when all she'd ever been was friend, then foe, but Emmeline's not there. None of them are. She tried to be like Lily, get separate, but now Lily's in the web and Emmeline's always been bait, hasn't she, hasn't she—

She was arrogant when she thought she could watch and laugh a cold laugh. She was probably watching because she couldn't look away.

The nice thing about this Order of the Phoenix initiative they've taken up is that part of the job is splitting up and keeping ears peeled, so she can contribute without getting too reinvested in the others. And to be fair, some of the pranks have been pretty ingenious, or at least Emmeline thinks so—like today's, for which everyone's neckties and robes have been Transfigured from house colors to a uniform purple and white. Younger students eye each other in the corridors, wary without allegiances to dictate who gets a smile and who gets a spitball. Older ones think it's probably either the Marauders or Fabian Prewett's group (or both) behind it all, but they all staunchly deny it; James and Sirius even make a show of envying and seeking out whoever came up with the idea.

"You're _sure_ you don't know whether it's them, though?" the pudgy and somewhat pimpled girl asks again as Emmeline fights the urge to try to shake off her new companion. Whoever she is tracked her down in the corridors on the way out of the Great Hall from breakfast, very wide-eyed and very much about to make Emmeline late to Charms.

"I can ask Lily, but I really haven't seen anything fishy."

"Because it doesn't _quite_ seem like they're the ones doing it—it's more serious, you know? It's _flashy_ like they always are, but it's not—like—they're not pelting purists with Dungbombs or writing insults on classroom chalkboards or anything—but the _magic_ they're using, it's clever, it's as clever as they are. It _could_ be them, couldn't it?"

"It's not like I'd know if it was. You picked the wrong Gryffindor to ask about it, sorry."

"Yeah, but you're in their year, right? So you must have at least noticed that something's up if they're involved."

"Want to know a secret?" The girl leans in a little, mouth hanging the slightest bit open, and Emmeline's lips turn up despite herself. "You don't _have_ to only talk to your housemates. Mary Macdonald probably spends more time around Hufflepuffs than she does with us. Lily Evans was best friends with a Slytherin for five years."

She deflates, like she's disappointed that she didn't get something properly personal out of Emmeline. "Well, I know _that_—I don't spend much time with anybody in my house, really—but I just figured—"

"I know, but it's okay to be closer to people from other houses than people within it. I barely talk to the other Gryffindors at all, honestly, so _really_, there's nothing I can tell you about whether James's friends are the ones doing it."

"I just thought—house lines are such a big deal around here."

"Kind of seems like the point of this is to change that, though, doesn't it?" says Emmeline. The girl fingers her necktie, flicks its tip back and forth with her thumb. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Mildred. Millie. I'm a fourth year; I'm in—"

"Tell me later when your uniform's back to normal," Emmeline interrupts, and Millie grins.

"Let me know if you do find anything out, though, will you? It'd be cool to maybe get involved with whatever they're trying to do, you know, meet new people and stuff," she says, and Emmeline gets the strong impression that this odd, fairly smelly Millie girl doesn't usually meet a lot of people.

"Sure I will. See you around, Millie."

Five minutes later, she slips into the classroom just as the bell's ringing and nods to Flitwick, who raises his eyebrows and smiles while she's taking her seat beside Marlene. "Where were you?" she hisses, but Emmeline shakes her head for the moment as she scrounges up parchment and a quill from her bag.

It's not until Flitwick's gotten through the theory of _Aguamenti_ and gives them time to practice that she answers the question. "I got held up by some girl who was asking whether we're behind the pranks again. She seemed interested."

"Think we could get her on our side?"

"Maybe. _Aguamenti_." They're supposed to be filling drinking glasses with water, but the most she can get out of her wand is a momentary trickle. Marlene's is puffing clouds of vapor that fog up her glasses. "Millie—the girl—she did mention something we might be able to use: leaving writing on the chalkboards. She was saying that if it were the Marauders, they'd probably be leaving something obscene, but I was thinking we could maybe use it to leave more facts—we could figure out a way to have the writing start a dialogue with the professors if they mention it when it happens, even."

"Yeah? We could work with that, I bet. We've got free period after this; we can grab Lily and Alice and check in with them about it, they're the best at Charms."

"Sure." There's one of those awkward pauses that tends to come whenever Emmeline's with a Gryffindor one-on-one, and they busy themselves with their glasses again, still to no avail. "Have you had any luck?" she hedges.

"It's not like I can go to anybody directly about it, but my little siblings keep saying that it's all the younger kids are talking about," Marlene replies, frowning down at the shoddy spellwork. "Not changing any minds yet, but it's only been a couple weeks, what do you expect? Hopefully we'll make a little progress on Friday, yeah?"

"Yeah, hopefully."

"You know, on second thought, maybe we shouldn't go to Lil and Alice together about it," Marlene muses, her eyes trained to the desk where they're partnered up. Alice's stream of water keeps spilling over onto the desk before she can stem it, and she's cursing to herself between flat smiles to Lily, who seems fidgety. "Alice gets crazy competitive when she feels threatened, and this fight thing with Sirius has _got_ to still be riling her, from the looks of it."

"Can we not do the gossip thing, please?" Marlene rolls her eyes but mutters a few words of compliance. Emmeline sighs, casts the spell again; an inch of water drops into her glass, but no more. "You're probably right," she says after a moment, softening. "I guess I can work with Lily on it, maybe grab Remus, too, if we need it."

"Sure." She looks like there's more she has to say to Emmeline for her shortness, but it's never done anybody any good for the last two years, so she curbs it and flicks her wand violently to shake off the beads of vapor clinging to the tip. It results in a gush of water that overflows from the glass to pool on the tabletop, drenching their textbooks. "Bloody…"

xx

She's been having the dreams again, so when a few nights later she can't take any more of it, she steals upstairs to the North Tower, breaks the lock on the Divination classroom door, and darts straight for the tall armchair at the window, the one facing away from the body of the room. A belch from the front of the room startles and halts her before she's walked even five paces, though, and her heart rate accelerates a bit before she swallows and walks briskly forward to find James sprawled out below the professor's desk, clutching a near-empty bottle of firewhiskey to his chest with a few butterbeers littering the floor. "Fancy meeting you here at a time like this," he hiccoughs, sloppily pulling her down to meet him.

Yelping softly, Emmeline collapses half on top of the boy, then clears her throat and straightens up a respectable few inches away from him. "Fancy that," she echoes.

"Didn't think anybody would find me up here!" James declares, another couple burps trailing in his words' wake. "Reckoned I'd be _safe_ to do whatever—I—please!"

"Apparently not," she says, then, "I come here to think sometimes."

"Yeah?"

"It's quiet. I can make tea and practice divining from the dregs."

"_Tea_. You ever sneak into the kitchens?"

"Would you like some?"

"Whatzit?"

"Tea?"

"When I've got _whiskey_? _Nah_." He drains what's left of the bottle, although a good amount of it misses his mouth and dribbles down his chin and onto his robes. With a childlike frown, he swirls the bottle around, presses his glasses up to the opening on top, flings them aside (they shatter with a tinkle) and peers in again. "_No_, all gone? _Can't_ be…"

"I'll put the kettle on, then," says Emmeline, rising as he starts to rattle the drained bottles around him.

"Ooh, you're _uppity_. Uptight, like. You could give Alice a run for _her_ money, you know! Have an _uptight_ contest!"

"Oh, I don't think anyone would want to see that."

"Would _too_. It'd be good gossip. Let go for a night, Em, come sit _down_, have a drink."

"There isn't any left, James; you drank it all, remember?"

"Right," he says, pouting. He rummages around for his broken glasses as she bustles around preparing the tea, but he doesn't attempt to repair them just yet, probably for the best. "I might be developing a bit of a drinking—_urp_—problem."

"Really," she says. Then, later, "I'm sorry."

"Oh, but you're _trying_, aren't you! You're _bitter_, aren't you, and it's _hard_ not to bite, but you're busting your arse to—"

"Is this necessary?" she interjects.

"No," says James, without irony. "You don't talk much."

"You all talk more than enough. You're all dialogue and no—_pause_, no thought."

"Yeah, but nobody would get anything done—_urp _—if they didn't talk. It'd be all anarchy and no ideas. _Ideas_ make change happen. It's like a—a—a _catalyst_."

"Catalyst, huh?"

"_Yeah_." He looks so earnest there, eyes unfocused but brows furrowed, studying her as she studies the tea. "I'm not—_hic_—depressed or anything. _Padfoot's_ depressed, so I wanted to be his drinking mate to help him keep out of any trouble or anything, but sometimes I pilfer his liquor." Emmeline's a bit impressed by his vocabulary, considering his state. "It makes things fuzzy. And clearer. 'S cool."

"Clearer how?" she asks.

He covers his ears and moans as the kettle starts to whistle, then loosens when she snatches it up and pours him a cup. Accepting it, he gobbles it down, recovers, and tells her, "Clearer like I can tell things. Like people think it's me and Lily running shit, but we're just—_urp_—front men, doesn't mean we _do_ the shit. She's a mess, I'm more of a mess. I'm _plastered_. Or like—like you need people."

The dreams have receded by now, but everything feels foggier with James here, _here_, in her North Tower where nobody ever goes. To her, it manifests as an energy thing, and she can't stop herself from latching onto him, onto his drunk, his piercing. She is not safe near him, near anyone. "Give me your cup," she says quietly.

He obediently passes it to her with trembling hands. She swirls it, stares into the dregs, but they stare back and say nothing and she cannot _read_ anything or tell anything and she stands, leaves it with the kettle for him to tidy up. "Hey! But what's my fortune?" James calls, and she feels herself lingering leash-like and miserable in the room with him even as she ducks out of the classroom and down the stairs, dragging, dragging.

It's already done by the time she reaches the Fat Lady—she won't take _dittany_ for an answer, and that's when Emmeline realizes it's well past midnight and certainly long after Alice hoodwinked the portrait. _Bugger_. She roams the corridors for a while before finally curling up to sleep in a disused classroom, her knife-edged limbs poking into the floor at terse angles and the ground poking back, fraying her whenever she dozes, gnarly, cloudy, nowhere. The dreams don't come because they have no opportunity to surface; Emmeline is surface, cannot sink, cannot swim. (corpse on waves back floating tightrope taut stretch sever we've got your head we won't let go give me your almighty—)

The bell is shrill. Roused, she rockets upward, forehead hurtling into the desk, and then everything is streaming and splintering in the prickly morning. Cursing, Emmeline collects herself and makes for the Great Hall—she's not enrolled in Potions, so she has the morning off and may as well catch a late breakfast. The hall's nearly emptied by now, and only a few scattered sixth and seventh years remain, picking at their food with fatigue or hangovers or both. Dumbledore nods cheerily to her from the High Table as the door clunks shut behind her, and she raises a tentative hand, lowers her eyes, and fiddles with the hem of last night's dressing gown.

It's not long, however, before students start trickling back into the hall, sleepy but abuzz with impatience. Peter and Mary seek her out at the Gryffindor table as she watches the Head Girl move straight toward Dumbledore, who's chatting intently with Hagrid. "So it worked, then," she says as they sit down.

"Yeah, and Peeves is taking the opportunity to drop water balloons on everybody's feet in the meantime, since they can't go back to change their socks," says Peter. Mary clicks her waterlogged heels for emphasis.

"Right."

"Where'd you go last night, Em?" Mary asks. "You were in bed before I was; I thought—"

"Nowhere—I—just woke up and couldn't get back to bed. Alice wasn't back yet when I left, so I thought—but when I got back, I was locked out."

"You weren't with James, were you? Because he wasn't there when we woke up, or at breakfast, and we don't know where he is because he has the—uh—he skived off Potions."

"Has the what?" says Mary keenly, but Peter shakes his head.

"Doesn't he always skive off?" says Emmeline.

"Not much, now that Lily's getting fond of him."

Mary snorts. Emmeline's spared responding when Dorcas calls the hall to attention, announcing with fatigue, "All right, so as you all obviously have figured out by now, it seems we've got a situation where all the passwords to the common rooms have been changed, locking everybody out of their houses. We're going to get on taking care of this as fast as possible, but in the meantime, you're all welcome to stay here in the Great Hall or anywhere within bounds in place of your common rooms. Do we know for sure that all four houses are locked out? Gryffindor?"

Of course—there may only be rumors within the student body, but the staff more or less pinned the Gryffindors as the perpetrators of the Phoenix initiative as soon as it started. It's with a second's surprised lift to her eyebrows, then, that she hears grumbled assent from a number of Gryffindors, Mary playing along among them as particularly disgruntled. "Right—Hufflepuff? Ravenclaw? … Ravenclaw?"

And despite the students' uniformly purple ties, it dawns on them all that Ravenclaw's the only house missing from the hall. Up front, McGonagall's thinned lips widen out again as she cocks an eyebrow. Despite herself, Emmeline glances sidelong at Peter, who says in an undertone, "Alice wasn't able to lock it out—she tried locking it onto one riddle that couldn't be answered, but she couldn't get it to work in time, the door found a way around the paradoxes."

"Yeah? We can work with that, maybe," Emmeline says back as Dorcas falls back, briefly conferring with Dumbledore again before striding through the double doors and into the corridor. "We could get everyone to convene in their common room, maybe?"

"Make them help each other out and work with the Ravenclaws to crack the riddles and have somewhere to go, yeah," says Peter. "Em, you've got friends in Ravenclaw, do you want to head over and see if they'll let people in?"

"What, without you? Avoiding your ex-girlfriend?" Mary teases. "You two go; I'm going to go check in with Ver and feel out how people are reacting."

So they set off for the Ravenclaw common room, Emmeline leading the way. Peter raises a hand to the brass knocker on the door when they arrive, but she pulls him away and says, "We shouldn't yet—that'll ask a question, and they probably won't appreciate us barging into their common room and then inviting the rest of the castle in, too."

"Right," says Peter. He raps on the door with his knuckles instead, again when at first he goes unnoticed. As they slouch against the wall in the meantime, he asks again, "So _do_ you know where James is?"

"I found him in the North Tower last night, actually. He was pretty wasted; you might actually want to go collect him before a class goes in while I handle… this."

"Bugger," says Peter, and then Emmeline's alone.

It's Dana Madley who's the next to enter the corridor, to Emmeline's slight irritation. She watches Madley's pumps click purposefully toward her, then halt as Emmeline clears her throat; the right one crosses behind the left and snaps to a defensive point on its toes. "Elegant," Emmeline quips.

"What?"

"Nothing. Sorry. Look—"

"You looking for Maggie? Because I can check for her for you, but I'm pretty sure all the fourth years have class—"

"It's not that," says Emmeline. Madley purses her lips, shifts her weight back. "It's—well, all the other houses got locked out of our common rooms somehow."

"They got what?"

"Yeah, the passwords aren't working, everyone's in the Great Hall for now and Peeves is having a right old party taking advantage of it. Ravenclaws can still get in here, though, apparently, so I was just thinking—"

"That you'd break into our common room into the meantime until it's straightened out, yeah?" says Dana. Emmeline blinks, doesn't yet chance a response. "Cracking the riddles together matters to our house, Vance. It helps first years bond with the rest of the house, it—"

"So it's wrong for other houses to bond together, too, if you let them in?"

"That's just like you Gryffindors, always assuming it's your place to do whatever in Merlin's name you—"

"Sure, all right, think what they want you to think."

"Excuse me?"

"The house stereotyping. Do what you want, but when You-Know-Who takes over because you were too busy holding grudges to resist—"

"Do you even hear yourself talk?" Madley interrupts; Emmeline rolls her eyes, drawing her knees closer to her chest. "If this is even headed toward a full takeover, which you don't know—"

"Which we _do_ know," mutters Emmeline.

"—Then part of picking a side is knowing who your allies are, and I'm sorry, but Gryffindors can't be trusted to be our allies. You think you can step all over everyone until you need them—"

"I don't _step on_ anybody," says Emmeline; "I don't even associate with the rest of my house—"

"Right, so that explains why you're always off snogging Peter Pettigrew and mooning over Sirius Black and braiding Lily Evans's hair—"

"I haven't been mates with Black in _years_; get your facts right," says Emmeline coolly.

"Of course, ever since you threw a hissy fit and decided you were above all the gossipmongers you live with. But you should see the way you still look at him." Emmeline narrows her eyes. "Don't you know you're no _different_ from them, Vance? Alice Abbott thinks she's better than me, you think you're better than Alice Abbott, but either way, you're both arrogant arses who belittle anyone who's not prudish enough or—or clever enough, or haughty enough—"

"Is there a point to this, or are you going to stand here all day lamenting your insecurities?"

Madley's face heats up scarlet. "At least I'm comfortable enough with my body to make decisions for myself without trying so hard to meet anybody's standards. Merlin knows who could possibly be enough for you. And Maggie said your attitude was getting _better_."

"So I take it that means you're not letting us into the common room?"

She strides forward, the hem of her robes twirling out and brushing Emmeline's ankles. "Of course I'm letting you in. The Hufflepuffs are decent, at least, and I'm not going to try and keep the whole castle away just because of you," she says, pounding the brass knocker on the common room door as Emmeline snarls and collects herself. "Riddle?"


	30. March 4th: Remus Lupin

**Previously in the Darklyverse:** Masquerading under the moniker Order of the Phoenix, the Gryffindors sought to incite the student body to action against the Death Eaters, starting with a series of pranks to raise awareness and initiate inter-house unity and, most recently, by jinxing all the common rooms but Ravenclaw's (CH29). James dabbled in alcoholism (CH29), Remus agreed to test Damocles Belby's cures-in-progress for lycanthropy (CH16, CH22), and rumors flew about the trustworthiness of Slytherin and Head Girl Dorcas Meadowes (CH2, CH8, CH14).

xx

**March 4****th****: Remus Lupin**

On the upshot, it looks like it's working. As they dizzily surface at the top of the stairs, the Ravenclaw common room door is swinging open to welcome a handful of relieved-looking second years who whip around at the sound of footsteps and bashfully hold it open for the Gryffindors to enter. "Your first time coming up here?" Remus says with a faint smile. They nod. "Ours, too. Good on you for getting the riddle."

"Thanks," says the shortest, but before he can scramble away, his frowning companion asks, "Aren't you lot from Gryffindor? Only Timmy says you're the ones doing all this—"

"Your mate Timmy ought to get his facts straight before he parades them around the castle," Sirius says brusquely, shrugging off the warning hand Remus raises to his shoulder. "C'mon, let's try and find the others…"

The tower's not crowded yet—it's early enough in the day that most of Hogwarts is in class or else roaming the castle—but it's obvious enough that the houses are already mixing; it seems like every student lounging in one of the mahogany chairs is talking to another who's perched across the study table and flinching every time the door opens, as if Flitwick's about to waltz in and expel them all for trespassing. But laughter still ricochets off the walls, ivory and stretching high above, and the sheer drapes over the full-length windows are thrown open, and they're all doused in the wintry-blue but easy sunlight. "This must have been Peter's and everyone's doing, right? It's lucky they thought of it; I was worried that…"

"Relax, Alice, you did great. Let's not talk about it here," Lily tells her. Alice's shoulders stay tense through her smile as she catches sight of Mary and leads the way to the table where she's seated with Amos Diggory and Samantha Spinnet.

"I miss Gryffindor. It feels like a library in here with all the bookshelves and no armchairs," Mary blurts by way of greeting as they crowd in, grudgingly dropping her feet from the table as Marlene hops on top of it to sit. "How was Potions?"

"All right. Uneventful," says Marlene, trilling "thank _you_" to Mary while she gets comfortable.

To the contrary, it was _quite_ eventful—James's absence has Remus alarmed and left Lily to contend alone with Snape's bitter glances, and Belby slipped him the latest recipe of the month that he's got to find time to look over by tomorrow night's full moon—but it's not like they can exchange any of it or ask after James's whereabouts in the present company. "When did you come up here?"

"Pretty soon after breakfast, actually," answers Diggory, nodding to them. "I think Em Vance thought to come up here to see if she couldn't take refuge in Maggie McKinnon's dorm until the password thing gets figured out, and people just sort of—trickled in after, once they knew the Ravenclaws were letting them and Meadowes gave the go-ahead."

"Meadowes approved it?" asks Lily.

"Yeah, surprisingly. She's not here anymore, though; she went off to find Shacklebolt now that he's getting out of class."

Remus doesn't miss Sirius's scowl, but he doesn't mention it, either. "Sort of wish she hadn't," Spinnet says. "Not everyone's thrilled about it; Dana's not going to let anybody hear the end of it, I don't think. Mentioned she wants to complain to Kingsley right away once he's back. You'd think people wouldn't care so much about keeping other people out, but if it's going to cause this much conflict—"

"Why should it, though?" Marlene interrupts. "Whoever's behind it must be doing it _because_ stuff like this is such a big deal to so many people, to try and change it, I mean. It's got to be the same as whoever's doing the other pranks, don't you think?"

"Yeah, maybe," says Spinnet. There's a thick silence until Remus fishes a deck of Exploding Snap out of his robes and proposes a game.

He steals off with Sirius after lunch, and although James has got the Map, they think they've got an inkling of where Peter may have made off with him if he's found him—that spot they always go to when it's daytime and they're up to no good. The hallway stretches behind them far wider than Remus's comfort zone as they approach the mirror. "We've got to stop defaulting to this place before somebody else finds out about it," Remus says Sirius narrows his eyes and flicks his wand just to the left of the blemish where your reflection goes blurry.

"Relax, Moony, do you really think anybody else would be clever enough to go looking where we've looked? I still reckon there are secrets in this castle that _still_ haven't made it onto the Map after scouring the place," dismisses Sirius, continuing to tap out the right pattern as Remus casts a wary lookout behind them.

"You can never be too sure. Hurry up before somebody passes, we're in the middle of a central corridor, for Merlin's—"

"Oh, relax and get in," says Sirius, and with a tug, he falls through the glass, feels the shards in its eyes even as it shimmers without fracture and solidifies again behind them, a one-way mirror, the light of the corridor toppling behind them onto the crumbling stones of the passage.

He'll never get used to looking out and knowing no one's going to look back, he means to say, but then he opens his eyes again and sees. "James." He dashes forward to crouch beside Peter, who's looking somewhere in the space between anxious and panicked.

"'Ello," James croaks. "You didn't happen to bring water, did you?"

"He's just waking up again," says Peter, rubbing the gooseflesh on his arms.

"No luck, mate," Sirius says, then adds, "Saw you got into my stash last night."

"Noticed that, did you?"

"Regretting it now, are you, from the look of it?"

"Shut it," says James, bumping a loose fist halfway up Sirius's chest, as high as he can reach.

"It's the third time this week," Remus tells him, glancing at Peter and back. "Not that it's at all the most reckless we get up to sometimes—" James snorts "—but if there's something going on, it's all right to bring it up, and if you're _really_ just getting wasted over Lily, then we've definitely got to talk, James, because some witch is possibly the most rubbish reason you could come up with to get smashed."

He snorts again, dissolves into a coughing fit after. "Nah, it's not Lily, I can handle a bit of prolonged exposure to estrogen. Is it just—I mean, don't you ever wish it would all stop sometimes?"

"Which bits?" says Sirius, thankfully, before Remus has to come up with a response.

"The sober bits," James laughs. No one laughs back. "The—I'm a top student, Quidditch team, strutting around with a not-so-secret notorious alias—_thing_, I'm safe on both sides because the Potters have a good reputation but everyone's still expecting us at the front of the liberal movement, nobody hates me but Snape and he's easy enough to toss out. Don't you want it to stop sometimes? Don't you just want somebody to _hate_ you so you can just stop trying so damn hard and—"

"It be okay?" Remus finishes, and James colors.

"I know I'm lucky. I know that. I just want to sleep, too, sometimes, let somebody else do it. Be dispensable. Not that I'm _important_, but…"

Remus thinks back to those novels Marlene likes, the Muggle ones by Jane Austen, with the heroes who bitterly trap themselves in their own cells, who could get out if they decided to and concern themselves with dances and courtships instead. They concern themselves with frivolities, too, bring poltergeists to the Slug Club and snog, and debate whom to snog, then discuss their snogs over dying Muggle bodies and make pranks out of wars, mock green lights with firecracker sparks. They play politics with veelas over drinks in a bar and none of it makes sense, not really, when every four weeks he sheds his old bones and half these people would have him put down like a pet if they knew he was the one keeping them up at night in the Shrieking Shack. People die and kill and get killed and they _sit_ there, all of it swirling, seeing it darkly, trying to stop it and not knowing how and grabbing a whiskey when they remember it's not their place. Maybe grabbing one too many, like James here, for instance.

"Come here," says Peter through the pause; "open up—come on—_Aguamenti_, there you go," and he rubs James's shoulder as he guzzles the spray.

"Did it work?" he croaks, water dribbling down his chin.

Remus cracks a half-smile. "The lockout? Looks like it—so far, anyway. It didn't work on the Ravenclaw knocker—they've got riddles, not passwords—but everyone's holing up in their common room now, which actually seems to be working out better than the Great Hall would have."

"Good, that's good."

"Missed you in Potions. Slughorn pitted Lily against Snape because you weren't there to partner her; it was tense."

"And Belby?"

"Got this from him at the end of class. Hold on a sec," Remus says. He scowls at Sirius, who's kicking his bag across the ground to him, then dusts it off a bit and rummages through his Potions textbook until he finds Belby's parchment stuffed in the back. "Recipe for the potion for tomorrow night. I haven't had a chance to look at it yet; we've been surrounded until now."

He passes it first to James as a courtesy, though Remus knows he's probably too hung over to get much out of it. It's to his surprise, then, that James hardly glances at the recipe before his eyes widen. "You can't take this," he says, feebly raising his arm to pass it to Sirius.

"What?"

"Don't take this tomorrow, Remus, he's got aconite in it."

"Aconite? But we've used that in Potions before—Belby's used poisons effectively before—" says Sirius, snatching it up and reading greedily.

"Aconite. _Wolfsbane_. They used it to kill werewolves in the Dark Ages; we talked about it in History of Magic a few months ago."

"Dammit, Belby," Remus says. "Here, let me see that…"

He has to squint to make out Belby's scrawl, the letters joined carelessly like this is all so natural for him, Remus's life. The passageway is dim, so he turns around to face the only light that filters through the mirror onto the crumbling stones, cold on his knees. The glass distorts the light, he fancies—bends it till it casts shadows over the parchment even as it blinds his eyes; and everything is so bright out there, blurry to him, away.

"You can sort of see why he's trying it, though, can't you?" says Peter, scooting over from James's side to peer over Remus's shoulder. "You said the Devil's Snare and silver never worked like they were supposed to, right? Aconite's obviously a lot more toxic to werewolves than silver is, but I get why he'd try new active ingredients when the old ones haven't worked for months."

"_A lot more toxic_—silver's only dangerous if you ingest it or if you were to somehow get it in your eyes, but I can't even touch aconite in class without having to worry about going into a coma, that's why I always have you handle those steps when we're brewing with it, Sirius."

"That little shit—"

"He ramped up the sedatives and added fluxweed and leeches," says Remus. "Looks a little like Polyjuice Potion—they're supposed to induce metamorphosis and extraction of life essence—it almost looks like he's trying to—"

"Suck the werewolf out of you and kill it with the wolfsbane?" James says, forceful even though he's still slurring all his words. "It's bold of him, to put it one way, but Remus, do you really want to be his guinea pig on this one—?"

"I don't know. I—don't know."

"It's a suicide mission."

"I know. I—should go; I need to go find Belby."

He stands. He's fine. He composedly slips the recipe back into his bag and slings the strap over his neck, and Peter calls after him as he straightens up, "Remus—"

"I'll find you later in the common room, all right? This passageway always gives me the creeps, it'll probably cave in any day now."

"But we can't get in there, we locked it up—"

But Remus is already approaching the glass, hesitating—the bright is so cold, why is it so cold and why can he never make shapes out with these eyes—and then crashing through to the other side. He blinks as Hogwarts sets back in around him, his skin warming.

xx

In some ways, Remus is surprised that McGonagall doesn't seek them out right away for the lockout. No, it's not until midway through that afternoon when "It's A Small World" starts blasting at full volume throughout the castle that the shit really hits the fan.

He's in Divination when it happens and keeps his smile to himself—Mary and Marlene delivered. Professor Shafiq breaks off her talk on heptomology with a little utterance, cocking her head toward the ceiling and then slowly laying eyes on the round table where he, Peter, and Emmeline are seated. "I don't reckon this interruption would have anything to do with the common room incident this morning, would it?" she says stiffly, but her words are barely audible over the music.

"What's that, Professor? Afraid you're going to have to speak up," snickers Veronica Smethley from the back of the classroom.

She glowers at her, then shakes her head and returns to the standing chalkboard where she was lecturing. "As I was saying," she says, raising her voice this time, "those of you who've taken Arithmancy will recall—"

But they'll have to wait before they can recall it, for when Shafiq raises the chalk to the board to add to her notes, it wriggles violently from her grasp, raps her on the wrist for good measure (she clutches the wrist to herself, her jaw dropping), and flings itself at the board, promptly beginning to scribble down lyrics in time to the music. _It's a world of hopes and a world of fears, there's so much that we share that it's time we're aware it's a…_

"Dear Merlin! I—erm—if you could pull out your textbooks, then, and turn to page 984 so you can follow along. Pettigrew, Lupin, come see me after class."

They swap looks. "But Professor, we didn't—"

"Oh, just do it, Pettigrew. So you should remember…"

She's losing their attention, though, and Remus can feel Carol Davies's eyes on him from behind as a familiar ringing fills his ears—Greta and Veronica must have cast _Muffliato_ to gossip. And hardly fifteen minutes pass before he hears a pounding at the door over the music, shortly followed by the arrival of not Professor McGonagall but Dorcas Meadowes.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Professor Shafiq, but I need to see Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew," she says breathlessly. She looks haggard, her blonde hair frizzy and flying out in all directions. Behind her, James waves brightly at the class, visibly recuperated from earlier, then Sirius punches him lightly in the shoulder and gives Remus and Peter a wide-eyed look.

"Go right ahead, Miss Meadowes," Shafiq tells her, and with that, Peter and Remus scramble to their feet.

"Bring your things," says Meadowes, and he does so, now starting to feel a bit nervous.

They meet her in the corridor, and she wordlessly leads them into the nearest empty classroom, latching the door behind them as they enter and perching herself on top of the professor's desk, ankles crossed. "You're the ones doing it, aren't you?" she asks. She's speaking normally, but it's still hard to hear her over the bellow of the chorus.

"I keep telling McGonagall, we don't have anything—"

"Relax, Black, I'm not planning on ratting you out to her, I want in."

"You—what?" says Remus.

"I think it's brilliant," says Meadows, smiling. "Organizing students to action and giving blood politics an immediacy in their everyday interactions? I've been doing what I can from the Head Girl post, but inter-house prefect rounds and more double classes for the first years only does so much. I love it."

"But you're—you're a pureblood," Sirius stammers.

"So are you, and the Meadoweses aren't even one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight like the Blacks are—even if my grandparents _have_ been clamoring to be added since the thirties when the genealogy came out."

"And a _Slytherin_!"

"Isn't the whole point of this charade that your house doesn't have to dictate your loyalties? I'd have expected better from you, Black."

Sirius is shaking his head in disbelief, fists clenched tight. Remus breathes a little easier. "So say we are the ones doing it," James says, and all eyes flicker to him. "Why approach us _now_ about it? Why not when it first started?"

"I wanted to be sure it wasn't just some ruse of yours, that you were actually looking to take action," says Meadowes. "And I don't think you lot would be taking this risky of measures to get your point across if you didn't want to go somewhere with it. I take it McGonagall doesn't want to let you fight?"

"She seems supportive of the—perpetrators—so far, but from the sounds of it, she and Dumbledore don't want it going farther than awareness with the students," Peter hedges.

"Well, I do. Awareness is an important first step, but sitting in a circle bitching about politics only gets you so far. The murders aren't going to wait until after we graduate, so neither should we. And you can drop the pretenses, all right? I need the secrecy as much as you do—I can't have Dumbledore knowing I'm involved with an underground movement to mobilize, or Kingsley either, for that matter. Maybe he could be persuaded someday, but I don't see him changing his mind as long as he's on the Auror track. I know it's you four; you don't have to dance around that."

It's the nine of them, technically, but Remus would rather not risk incriminating five others until he knows Meadowes isn't bluffing, and the others seem to be thinking the same. "What _can_ we do now, though? As long as nobody wants us fighting, we don't exactly have access to the information we'd need to—"

"We can get access. I mean, I know how to get you access, and you probably would, too, if you thought hard enough about it," says Meadowes. Sirius raises his eyebrows. "Oh, come on; you're a pureblood, aren't you, so I'm sure you know how to get underground. I have a few contacts who trust my surname."

"So what are you saying, exactly?" says Remus slowly.

She smirks and hops off the desk, seizing hold of a piece of chalk and raising it to the board, despite its protests. "How do you feel about counter-terrorism?"

xx

They don't discuss it yet—it's not safe crammed into sleeping bags in the Ravenclaw common room and dormitories, and if they want to meet up the next day, Remus is too busy puzzling over Belby's recipe in the library to hear about it. He's not able to seek refuge for long, though, as Sirius tracks him down shortly after lunch, probably with the Map's help. "Hey, mate," he greets Remus, pulling up a chair and leaning in closer than comfort.

"You look incredibly out of place here."

"So I'm told. You think you'll go through with it?" he asks, nodding to the (by now quite tattered) parchment before Remus.

"Dunno. Probably."

"You probably shouldn't, you know."

"You said that about the silver."

"The silver was different. Aconite could really, literally kill you if Belby's wrong about this."

"Yeah, I know, I thought about that," says Remus. To be honest, he hasn't thought about much of anything, except maybe that he's not sure how much longer he wants to live like this, losing it and counting the damages after, and it'll be worth it to get fixed, but if Belby can't _fix_ him—he needs Belby to fix him, he just does, because he's been broken for a long time now and it makes him feel a little crazy, a little trapped. "I need to get out of this," he tells Sirius, but he doesn't expect Sirius to feel that like he feels it.

Sirius sighs, toys with the edge of the parchment. "You can wait the month out, tell Belby to come up with something without aconite for next month."

"I don't want to, not if this one might be it."

He doesn't say anything for a while, watching Remus as Remus watches the recipe, as if a big, glaring right or wrong will leap out of the page at him any second now. "What happens when he goes with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"How do you get him under the Whomping Willow? Does he stay with you down there? Why don't you end up ripping him apart every month when it isn't working yet?"

He looks at him grimly, tenderly, and then unfreezes, turning his chair to face Sirius; it scrapes against he ground and echoes through the otherwise empty nook of the library he's chosen. "I told him to prod the knot with a stick to get in. He's taken a couple beatings, but it's otherwise worked all right. He stays to observe any changes in my—behavior, I guess you could say, while I'm—out. At first he was planning to immobilize me if it didn't work so he wouldn't get hurt, but that—didn't work, obviously. He chains me up now, and he's learned to be ready to set up Shield Charms and stuff if I break loose so he'll be safe. I get more roughed up than I used to because of the friction, but I'm pretty much all right—not any worse than I used to be before you and the others learned to transform. How violent or docile I get changes depending on the month, but I still can't remember any of it after—_Sirius_…"

And he fades out as Padfoot raises a hand to Remus's hair, tangles his fingers in it; then brushes his knuckles against his cheek and finally settles upon Remus's chest. Remus closes his eyes. He opens his eyes. "I can ask Lily to go with you tonight, if you want."

"Lily?" asks Remus, blinking.

"She knows how to heal—a little, anyway—it might help to have her on hand, in case things go badly. I know she's not Pomfrey—"

Tensing up, Remus says, "I don't want to endanger anyone but myself."

"And Belby."

He hesitates. "And Belby, I guess."

Shying away from Sirius's hand, he feels the boils in his stomach settle a bit. Sirius deflates. "Sorry. I just—I worry about you," he says, retreating.

"I know. Thank you—really—but I'm not putting Lily at risk. I'll be all right." At Sirius's disbelieving look, he adds, "I'll be all right! I will." Silence again. "I'll be _fine_, I'm fine, look," and he shakes Sirius's shoulders playfully till he laughs and laughs.

He's all in knots when he meets Belby that night, huddling in himself, cradling his elbows. "Wolfsbane, Belby?"

Belby grins (_grins!_). "You said that about the silver."

"The silver was different. You're sure about this?"

"Sure enough to brew it. Drink up," he says, and he passes Remus the flask. Just in case, he supposes he ought to see his life flash before his eyes right about now—but he doesn't, and he breathes, and he drinks.

Nothing happens. Then he jolts, and doubles over, and almost retches, but Belby rushes forward and says don't, you'll just have to drink more if you lose it, and he swallows the bile, and he blinks his wet eyes back into his head, and Belby's grip is bracing and too tight, he doesn't want him here, but when Belby draws back it's because he can feel himself lurching, can _feel_ the breaks; he howls, he cracks, and it starts to fade out but this time it swims back forward again, _why is it in focus he can feel the bones breaking_ and fade and back and fade and back and black and back and he tries to curse Belby but all that comes out is a roar he doesn't recognize that bounces off the barrier between them, and Belby's gripping his wand so tight Remus can see the shaking, at least he can when he sees at all.

And then he drowns in a blinding desire for _blood the BOY'S BLOOD BUT HE DOESN'T WANT THIS WHY DOES HE WANT IT_ and he runs at the shield, crashes solid against it, falls back, stays back, tells himself he needs to stay back. It would be so easy, he senses, just a few quick scratches to his limbs and he could smell what he needs, the room is so dead and he cannot reach the boy he just wants to FEEL SOMETHING but it aches it aches to scratch _this is going to hurt in the morning_ and he stops, he pins his wrists PAWS to the ground and he stays, he yelps with the effort, _he does not want this_ and he stays put, why did he ever want to remember this, WHY DID HE _EVER WANT TO REMEMBER THIS_—


	31. March 6th: Alice Abbott

**Previously in the Darklyverse:** The Ministry awarded seventh years and a select few sixth years year-long internships, including an Auror program to which Alice, Frank Longbottom, and Kingsley Shacklebolt were admitted (CH11). When the Gryffindors began a series of war-awareness stunts that set the foundation for the Order of the Phoenix (CH26), including a common room lockout that landed the whole student body in the Ravenclaw Tower for the weekend (CH29), Dorcas Meadowes approached the Marauders, suspecting them as the source of the moment and asking them to join her in moving beyond awareness and terrorizing the Death Eaters (CH30). Belby's latest modifications to a potion to counter lycanthropy left Remus painstakingly half-aware of his facilities while transformed (CH30), and Alice and Sirius fought over politics as Alice battled the prejudices against werewolves she was raised to believe (CH27).

xx

**March 6****th****: Alice Abbott**

"We'll be working on the basics of Stealth and Tracking today—can't have you prancing around right in front of the enemy, can we, so before you go anywhere you'll have to know how to disguise yourselves. Disillusionment Charms first, then: doesn't conceal you entirely but just lets your body take on the images behind it, makes you a sort of walking window, chameleon-like. Clear enough?"

Alice blinks and blinks, scribbles, spills black all across the parchment.

"Why Disillusionment, sir, if it isn't entirely effective?" Frank says with a frown.

"Can't do it," answers Williamson. "Highly advanced magic, that. Dumbledore's been spearheading some research into invisibility lately that they're saying he'll have published within the next few years, but it's all Disillusionment and Demiguise hairs unless he gets it right."

"Demiguise hairs?"

"Tailors will weave it into Invisibility Cloaks sometimes, since the Demiguise can make itself invisible—I believe that's the basis of the research being done, studying how the Demiguise cloaks itself and finding a spell to allow wizards to replicate the effect. But Disillusionment Charms are your best bet for a start—you can use it to enchant cloaks yourself, and it's the dirtiest way to conceal yourself if you're in a bind and don't have the proper equipment on your hands. Of course," Williamson adds sharply, "part of your training is to _always_ prepare yourself so you don't need to rely on patchwork, but it's necessary to know, at any rate, in case you do find yourself in trouble."

He's leading the way past rows of cubicles to the back of the floor, where they all shuffle into the dank practice room that's been designated for the Hogwarts Auror interns. By some Sunday mornings, Alice has half forgotten that she and a sprinkling of her classmates even _have_ Ministry internships, what with all the blasted distractions up at the castle, but no matter: she doesn't have time; she can't be concerning herself with petty upsets when she's got Auror training to do.

"It's easier to do on others than yourself, so I'll have you start out charming one another and go from there," says Williamson. "The motions are simple enough, just a sharp rap on the head, but the focus it'll take gets a little complicated. It's one of the few spells for which we have no incantation, sort of this paradox where, to hide yourself, you'll need a spell that itself can't be perceived directly—that can't be heard aloud, then, as one consequence. If we consider the theory…"

And he sprouts a chalkboard with a wave of his wand, dragging his hand from high above his head to the ground as the board materializes in its wake, and begins to write. Alice glances right, then left, then catches Kingsley's gaze and drops it.

A quarter, a half, of an hour passes, and Alice's eyes do not leave her parchment or her inkwell or Williamson's chalky hands—

"Williamson?"

He drops in the middle of writing a differential equation: Dawlish's voice at the door is terse. When Alice rests her quill on the desk, it's parallel to her folded arms. "_Now_? It's barely nine."

"Moody's calling us all in, it's urgent. You're going to have to leave them," says Dawlish. "Morning, Shacklebolt, Longbottom, Abbott," he adds, milder, after a short pause.

"Right. All right. Can you send in Dearborn, then? Or—"

"Can't, all hands on deck."

Williamson stammers a moment, then sweeps the board back into his wand and smiles weakly at the three of them. "You're out early, then, I suppose. Catch a nap, practice on each other at home, be prepared to show me next week? Sorry to run out—you know how to show yourselves out," he says, swooping toward Dawlish.

"No—there's no time—does one of you know how to Disapparate?" Dawlish looks to be growing hysterical; Kingsley half raises a hand. "Take them with you? Here?" he instructs, and he hovers in the doorway until the three students vanish with a _crack_.

"Where d'you reckon they're off to? It's got to be a high priority mission," muses Frank as they straighten out in the shadow of Dervish and Banges.

"Hope there's not a lot of casualties," Kingsley says, and Alice wants to consider the possibility but can't.

"Ten Galleons says we don't see Dumbledore at lunch today."

Kingsley waves goodbye as he stops off at The Three Broomsticks, and then Alice and Frank are alone, winding their way toward the castle in the fresh wind, Frank's hands shoved in his robe pockets, Alice's clasped together and twisting.

"You're not saying much today," remarks Frank, smiling gently.

"Just thinking about the lesson," she says, returning it. "It's frustrating we couldn't, you know, _accomplish_ much today, but the theory's all very interesting—at least I've always thought. Transfiguration, I mean, because it really gets at the root of where magic _comes_ from, trying to figure out when you get deeper into the math even though you can't." Sort of like God or Muggle physics, the push-and-pull. "Not that I'd rather talk semantics than fight the Dark, but at least we were able to get _something_ out of it."

"You're so bright, Alice." He lets his arms swing loose, and his fingers brush hers, loosen them too. "You're not saying much lately in general, either."

"No, I suppose not." She clears her head of veelas and werewolves and faces.

"Whatever's up, just don't bottle it in too much, yeah?" Nod. "And you know I'm here?"

"I know. Thank you. I'm here, too."

Full lips, round eyes. "Anyway, I think it's rubbish we get sent home for the day instead of sent to do—_something_, I don't know, anything. There's a goddamned war going on, and you heard what Dawlish said, all hands on deck."

"I know," Alice says again. "I know, I think it's rubbish, too, but they've probably got protocols to follow dealing with minors. They're liable to Dumbledore, to the parents—our parents—if something happens—of course they're not going to send us out."

"Yeah, but even if they don't send us out in the field. They could fill us in on the situation, couldn't they? Leave out the names and locations and let us do _something_ at least in the office, listen in on strategizing, anything. Don't they want people to know what's going on, what's _wrong_, defend ourselves? Take care of each other? It just seems so…"

"Stupid," supplies Alice, and he laughs. "I reckon you're appreciating the phoenix stuff around the castle, then?"

"_That_ propaganda? Sure, the _thought's_ there, but I'll buy it when I see it at work, mate."

Mate. The word stings, and the grounds are beautiful, beautiful, against the owls flooding the sky with little black letters, and Alice assures him, "Mention it to the right crowd, Frank, and I expect you'll be hearing from them soon enough." He raises his eyebrows, goes to ask after her, but she's walking backward toward the castle, breaking out into a rare, real smile; turning and skipping into the sun.

xx

They can't meet all together, not yet, with Remus bedbound in the hospital wing. None of them can visit him without Pomfrey realizing they know, and they can't have that, can they, which is probably for the best because Alice isn't sure how she'd look him straight in the face if she went in there. No matter, as Peter snuck in before leaving for the Ministry and brought Sirius a full report to relay. "Physically, he's better off than normal—fewer injuries, probably few enough that he'll be released by lunch, Pomfrey told him—but he's in a bad place, Peter said. Apparently, he was half conscious all night but not enough to keep control."

"That's awful," Alice says. "But Belby must be onto something, right? If Remus was at least _partly_ aware of himself, compared to—normal."

"Yeah, well, if it's going to be like this until he gets it right, it better not be too many more months before he perfects it. Remus says it's worth it long-term, but he assumes Belby's going to eventually succeed."

"And you don't."

"Not really, no."

She looks down, back to the _Daily Prophet_ in her lap that's not yet flooded with the cautions and obituaries that she's sure will come tomorrow. "You're back early," says Sirius.

"Williamson got called in for a mission. It sounded bad. Sirius…" He looks at her, and his face is hard and Alice is not what he wants, stubborn but frail and wordless and not big enough for him—at least, he seems to think she's not. "I hate this war as much as you do."

"Sure you do," he tells her, but she knows he doesn't mean it, and so must he. He's always liked her least, chubby Alice with the ringlets and books, nose in her wand and mouth on her prefect's badge, chin always pointed up above the masses, and this is Alice take it or leave it, but is it really, honestly? She likes novels and walks and dipping her toes in the lake, but she's not sure it matters anymore, and she's not sure where to find herself in there, so long she's spent attending balls with her parents and writing essays in the library in neat, neat print. None of it feels real, and she's not sure why she wants to be an Auror, maybe to try to put some of those essays to good use, maybe to make them real, maybe to feel like she's real.

The Ravenclaw common room is only sparsely occupied, most students probably still lazing around upstairs in their pajamas and drawing their curtains against the sun and its irony, so she's careful to lower her voice so it won't carry in the stillness. Flitwick expects to sort the common room passwords out by tonight, as he apparently announced at breakfast when she was at the Ministry, but Alice's considering resetting them herself after curfew if he hasn't gotten it resolved by then. Cramming every sixth year girl in the school into Dana Madley's dormitory to sleep is getting exhausting, and the inter-house unity message is starting to wear off, now that the whole castle has been waking in the mornings with sore backs and crusty eyes. "Have you heard anything else from Dorcas Meadowes?"

Shaking his head, Sirius answers, "No, not since Friday. She waved hello this morning on her way down to breakfast, but she hasn't come to talk properly at all. Probably giving it a few days to sink in."

"And how's it sinking?"

For once, the rigidity fades from his brow when he looks at her, not the other way around. "Heavy," he says. "It's—a _lot_, Al, what she's suggesting. And how well do we even know this girl? Can we trust her? She's a bloody Meadowes—"

"You're a Black," she reminds him, and he gapes for a moment.

"Yeah, well, she hasn't exactly been burned off _her_ family tree, has she? Just because she says she wants to use her connections against them doesn't mean she's playing _them_ and not _us_."

"All right, so how could she use this against us if we agree?"

A horrible brightness comes into his eyes, upturn upon his lips, and he lists off, "Frame us for crimes she plans and erasing any evidence that ties her to them. Giving false information so that we're accidentally injuring our side instead of hers. Setting us up to get us unwittingly killed—"

"Right," says Alice, not wanting to realize that a witch her age could be capable of murder, remembering Severus Snape. "Right. So we still keep ourselves out of it so she thinks it's just you four—give her as little information as possible—and—what else? Talk to Fabian?"

"And get _another_ person close to her involved? Really, given the circumstances, you think that's a good idea? How do you know he won't just turn around and report back to her—"

"We don't. We can't, but we're going to have to give a little to find anything out about her, aren't we?"

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, maybe, but we shouldn't move too fast with this."

Alice concedes, "Of course. What exactly was she proposing again?"

"Tracking down meetings of Death Eaters or their minions and attacking them, basically. She sounded about ready to terrorize any gathering of purebloods she could find, and much as I wish it was that simple…"

"Not all pureblood families are necessarily Dark sympathizers," she supplies, thinking of the Potters, of herself.

xx

James makes great company for self-pitying, so she finds herself supervising his drinking in the Divination classroom most nights, incrementally swapping his Firewhiskey for butterbeer and ignoring his protests. "You can't even get _tipsy_ off this stuff," he whines when by the end of the week she's confiscated all the liquor; he swigs a butterbeer regardless, sucks on the mouth of the bottle between swallows.

"Oh, come on, you're tipsy already. Tough up, you look pathetic like that," she braces him, Vanishing the remainder of the bottle she found him with.

"It's nobody's business but mine, anyway, and I didn't ask _you_ to play bad cop."

"You know I'm only here because Sirius is getting worried. _Sirius_, honestly," she says, even though that's not entirely true.

"Well, maybe it's all bullshit. You lot make all these decisions for each other, you did it with Sirius and Marlene for years—"

"And you didn't?"

"Maybe I'm done, then. _Maybe_ I've had an epiphany that—that—you're all _codependent_. You get sucked into each other and, and, you think you need to rag on each other all the time…"

"All right, James," Alice appeases him, laughing.

He frowns dramatically. "You don't care."

"It doesn't matter very much if you're right or not, since you're probably only thinking all of this because you're halfway to drunk."

"And coming back from it, thanks to _someone_ in this room. So what if I engage in different _extracurricular activities_ from yours?"

"Look at it like this, then: you're waxing lyrical over alcohol every night and passing judgments on everybody else's lives just to avoid your girl problems."

He doesn't even bother denying it, switching gears immediately and pouting over his bottle. "She's moving in with Sirius, Alice! His uncle left him a shit load of gold in his will, and he's getting a flat, and he asked her to _live_ with him in it! All because she hasn't got any money and her family's dead! Won't even look me in the face and now she's hijacking my best mate's place, too! How'm I supposed to be able to _see_ him in the summers now without her goddamn face chasing me around?"

"Sirius can come visit you at your parents'," Alice reminds him.

James hesitates, processing this new bit of information, but apparently deems it unsatisfactory because he carries on, "She's just _everywhere_, Al. She's just all over the damn castle, all the time. We get on, we don't, we're mates, we're not, we're snogging, we stop, and it's just—it's _constant_. Can't damn get away from her. It's like she's throwing all these scraps and I keep _taking_ them and then she takes them away again… kind of like you and the Firewhiskey!" he adds, beaming as the connection occurs to him and then wagging his finger.

"Sure," says Alice. "If that's what's bothering you, then can't you just stop waiting for her to go out with you so that it doesn't give you such a hard time?"

"Right!" he exclaims, but his smile fades quickly. "Well, I tried that. Couldn't do it. It's always _her_ who gets to pick, and I just sit here. Drinking. Do you ever try to do something you can't?"

"Sure," she says again, avoiding specifics.

"Anyway," he continues, "Sirius is still mad at you. I'm mad at you, too, if what _he_ said about what _you_ said about _Remus_ is true."

Alice tenses, considers asking what exactly that is, and doesn't. "I don't owe you an explanation for anything."

"I guess not, but what was it you said I like doing? Judge the shit out of other people?"

If he Petrified her, right now, she couldn't get any stiffer. "I've never done _anything_ to Remus, James. Certainly nothing on par with the things you've done to innocent people."

"Oh, really, like who?"

"Snape, for one."

He slams his butterbeer down with such force, she's surprised it doesn't crack. "Don't call that little bugger _innocent_, Alice, I'm warning you, didn't you see what he did to my face the last time we talked?"

"I'm not saying he still is," she grants him, "but he'd never done anything to anybody when he was eleven, and that didn't stop you then."

It's a low blow, maybe, but so was his, and Alice is tired of whispers and deaths and windows that won't open when she's sleeping, ones that suffocate, smirking, sparkling. Everyone keeps muttering that she's going to boil over if she keeps up like this, and maybe they're right; maybe they all can hear the whistling. She pops open her own butterbeer over the sound of his bleating and raises it to her lips.

xx

_7 MARCH: BOTH SIDES SUFFER CASUALTIES IN SUNDAY MASSACRE AS CROUCH AUTHORIZES AUROR USE OF UNFORGIVABLE CURSES_

Alice passes her copy of the _Daily Prophet_ across the table to Mary to read; she doesn't need to do more than breathe in the headline, not yet, to know all she needs. "Shit," says Sirius. Marlene crowds Lily's shoulder for a look, cheeks paling, and Peter's entire head is buried behind his copy, pressed an inch away from his nose, only the topmost ruffle of his hair visible over the paper.

"The law only just passed on Friday," says Remus, looking a bit peaky—whether from the news or from the full moon, Alice can't quite tell. "Looks like Death Eaters heard about it and retaliated by storming the Atrium of the Ministry around nine o'clock, right when everyone was arriving to work. A lot of people got away by Disapparating, but it was crowded, some of the employees hung back to try to help the Aurors who went downstairs to sort it out…"

"That explains why Dawlish had us Disapparate upstairs instead of leave through the visitors' exit," says Alice. "Merlin. How many deaths?"

"They're saying dozens. More of us than them, but there were more of us on site to take out before anyone knew what was going on," Marlene answers. "Everyone was throwing Killing Curses, Aurors included. Dammit, I have to owl Doc, I have to…" She wrings her hands, pushes back her hair, pulls away strands and strands, shrugs off Lily's hand on her back.

"Everyone knows _someone_ who works in the Ministry," says Peter. "The skies will be crowded, the school owls might all be taken by now—don't worry if you don't hear from him for a few days, yeah? He'll be all right. You'll be all right, Marlene, you will…"

Emmeline flings the paper away from herself, closes her eyes, stretches her neck as her head falls backward. "They don't have an official count or list out yet—there were too many. And some of the Death Eaters showed up in plainclothes, so they can't tell for sure which ones were Ministry workers who turned out to be working with You-Know-Who. But they don't think anyone there was in his inner circle—he must have known it would be a suicide mission, he wouldn't send out his most valuable assets."

"I think I'm going to be sick," mutters Mary.

Lily's rifling to the back of the paper now, skimming her finger down the editorials. "Look here, page 27—there's a quote from Dumbledore criticizing Crouch's ruling. Apparently, he's letting the Wizengamot make verdicts without trials now; they've already sent three people to Azkaban, the families are speaking out. They were all robed and they've got plenty of witnesses, but it's only a matter of time before…"

"Before they start apprehending the wrong people," says Peter.

Marlene interjects, "But using the Unforgivables… it makes sense, doesn't it? At least the Killing Curse does—if it means saving the lives of innocent people, of Muggles…"

"Some of them were using Cruciatus," says Remus, shaking his head. "There's no excuse for torture like that. No one should have the right to…"

"Shouldn't they?" demands Sirius. "You haven't met my cousin, you don't know what they're capable of, you haven't seen what they deserve!"

"And the Aurors won't let students help, and Dumbledore won't let us join him," Lily says. "Dammit, this is why I need to go into law enforcement—and Alice, you were _right there_. And I'm glad you got out and didn't get hurt, you didn't have the defenses to take them on, but…"

"We need to learn to take care of ourselves," she says quietly. They all go still, watch her. "What if we were still downstairs when it happened? What then?"

Slowly, all eyes flick to Dorcas Meadowes's seat at the Slytherin table.

xx

**END OF PART FOUR**

xx

**A/N:** E gets dumped, Internet gets fanfiction. Unfortunately, this needed to be an Alice POV and her problems don't overlap at all with mine, so writing has mostly been taking the form of one-shots the last couple weeks, and I had to get past some pretty bad block to get this chapter out to you guys. I'm really enjoying the plotty-ness that I'm getting to finally incorporate, though, after four years (!) of building up to it, and with the time jump that's going to take place in Chapter 32, I'm hoping you guys will, too, as it picks up even more. Shout-outs to **Emily Mae** and my irl friend Katie for their help with this chapter! Reviews are love.


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